The Fields Are All White

The fields are all white, And the reapers are few; We children are willing, But what can we do To work for our Lord in His harvest?

Our hands are so small, And our words are so weak: We cannot teach others; How then shall we seek To work for our Lord in His harvest?

We’ll work by our prayers, By the offerings we bring, By small self-denials; The least little thing May work for our Lord in His harvest:

Until by and by, As the years pass, at length We too may be reapers, And go forth in strength, To work for our Lord in His harvest.