Souls are out wandering
Among life’s barren field
Not partaking of the crop
That My life does yield.

Barren is the land
Upon which the lost wander
In need of Me
While My people walk asunder.

Plenty is the harvest
But the laborers are few
If the eyes of My people were open
They’d see much for them to do.

About them they would see
The hopelessness of the lost
In the faces ‘round about
And they would count the cost.

They would count the cost
Of passing one by
Without telling them of Me
Before that lost one would die.

Where are My laborers
Where can they be found
Do they care about the lost
Do they want to labor upon My ground?

My ground is fertile
And, yes, the harvest is plenty
I am in need of laborers
Have you harvested any?