Whom shall I send, said the Master

To a world that is dying and lost

To reap all the soul that are searching

Who will reach them, whatever the cost

The fields are white and to harvest

And yet there is so little healed

The soil is crying, the fruit is dying

No harvest in empty fields

Summer will soon be ended

And the time for planting all through

The vineyards once carefully tended

Lie in waste for the laborers are few

The fields are white and to harvest

And yet there is so little healed

The soil is crying, the fruit is dying

No harvest in empty fields

The fields are white and to harvest

And yet there is so little healed

The soil is crying, the fruit is dying

No harvest in empty fields