All day among the
cornfields of the plain,
Heaping a mighty harvest to the Lord,
Our hands have bound the sheaves; we come again—
Shout for the garners stored!
All day among the
vineyards of the field,
Our feet have trodden out the red, ripe vine;
Sing, sing for hearts that have not spared to yield
A yet more purple wine!
All day against the
spoilers of our land,
Our arms made bare the keen and glittering sword;
None turned back, none stay'd the lifted hand;
Sing, sing unto the Lord!
All day besot by
spies, begirt with foes,
Building a House of Holiness—by night
We watch'd beside our weapons—slow it rose ;
Sing, sing from Zion's height!
D. G.
