The fields are white and
Ready for the Harvest
Yet the workman are where?
The ones Who with knowledge
And the Word are blest
Can they be found out there?
We are not sent first to a
Strange Land,
With tongue and work we cannot tell
We are not sent by a Strange Hand
Nor by a Master Who knows
Us not well.
The fields are white and leaning
And soon their grains will drop.
The commissioned may have good meaning,
Yet even their time on earth will stop
Called ye are, but who will go?
Who will you tell that doesn’t know?
We are not sent first to a
Strange Land,
With tongue and work we cannot tell
We are not sent by a Strange Hand
Nor by a Master Who knows
Us not well.
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