1 The time for toil is past, and night has come,
The last and saddest of the harvest eves;
Worn out with labor long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves,
Each laden with his sheaves.

2 Last of the laborers, Thy feet I gain,
Lord of the Harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain,
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;
Master, behold my sheaves!
Master, behold my sheaves!

3 Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late,
Yet these are all my sheaves,
Yet these are all my sheaves.

4 Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks, and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep, as at Thy feet
I kneel down reverently, and repeat
"Master, behold my sheaves,"
"Master, behold my sheaves!"

5 I know these blossoms, clustering heavily
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value nor utility;
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves,
The glory of my sheaves.

6 So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know Thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do;
And, though the full, ripe ears be sadly few,
Thou will accept my sheaves,
Thou will accept my sheaves.