A season has passed,

The fields are white at last.

It’s time to go,

And plant some more,

For reaping time is not ore,

Who will gather all that’s ripe?

Who will labor, day and night?

The laborers are few,

Each day starts anew,

A crown shall be won,

When the labors well done,

Souls are waiting,

It time now to go,

Who will toil in their row?

Mom and Dad, children too,

With tears we weep of loved one lost,

What hope do they have unless they believe?

They must trust in the One, who paid the cost,