The fields are high and summer’s days are few: green fields have turned to gold. The time is here for the harvesting for gathering home into barns.
The harvest is plenty; labourers are few. Come with me into the fields. Your arms may grow weary; your shoes will wear thin. Come with me into the fields.
The seeds were sown by other hands than yours; nurtured and cared for they grew. But those who have sown will not harvest them, the reaping will not be their care.