The fields are white with the ripened harvest
But no workers prepare to reap.
My storehouse is defiled and polluted with chaff,
My barns lie in a heap.
Why are you reapers at ease in Zion
When your lives are not your own?
I purchased you with the blood of My Son,
To gather the wheat that was sown.
Gird up your loins, sweep your barns clean,
And walk through my holy fire.
I've told you to repent; I've asked you to pray,
Are you not worthy of your hire?
What excuse will you give, says the Lord of the harvest,
On that day when you see My face,
If My precious crop dies forsaken in the fields
Because you trampled underfoot My grace?
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