1 Look up! behold, the fields are white,
The harvest time is near;
The summons of the Master falls
Upon the reaper’s ear:
Go forth into the golden grain
And bind the precious sheaves,
And garner for the Lord of Hosts
The harvest which he gives.

Chorus:
Look up! look up! behold, the fields are white,
The harvest time is near,
The harvest time is near:
Look up! look up! behold, the fields are white,
Look up! behold, the fields are white,
The harvest time is near.

2 Look up! behold, the fields are white,
The laborers are few,
The gath’ring of the harvest must
By grace depend on you:
Go forth throughout the busy world,
The world of want and sin,
And gather for the Lord of Hosts
Its dying millions in. [Chorus]

3 Look up! behold, the fields are white,
The Master soon shall come,
And carry with rejoicing heart
His gathered trophies home;
And can you stand with empty arms,
While gladly he receives
From others in the harvest field
A load of precious sheaves. [Chorus]