O reaper of rich teeming fields;
For the bright hope we sow in this mortal life,
Full often no harvest yields.
The blasts of sorrow, the clouds of care,
Disappointment’s terrible blight,
Destroy many sweet pleasures we hoped to rear,
And leave but winter and night.
Yet unto man in this vale of tears,
A holier hope is given;
If he scatter around him good seed on earth,