The fields are all white, the harvest is near,
The reapers all with their sharp sickles appear,
To reap down their wheat, and gather in barns,
While wild plants of nature are left for to burn.

Come then, O my soul, and think on that day,
When all things in nature shall cease and decay;
The trumpet shall sound, the angels appear
To reap down the earth, both the wheat and the tare.

Recordings 1