The Harvest

Written by George Leon Pike, Sr.

Copyright © 1989 by Betty M. Pike

1. The leaves of life, are slowly falling,

Winds of strife blow them away,

The fruits thereof they all have withered,

“Cut down the tree!” I hear Him say.


2. The mighty angel cries, while flying through the heavens,

“Go forth, ye reapers, reap today,

Cast it into the winepress that’s just outside the city,

Until God’s wrath be turned away.”


3. The battle is great, the blood is to the bridle,

The valley’s o’er flowing with the slain,

There, in the lake of fire of God’s burning indignation,

It’s too late to call on Jesus’ name.


4. The trumpet is sounding, to summon to the supper,

There, together we will shout and sing,

As the lovely bride of Christ, with the bridegroom of all ages,

Sits on the throne with Him to reign.



The harvest is ripe, so thrust in the sickle,

Watch the grim reaper pull the blade,

The end is near, my friend, and there’ll be no more tomorrow,

Because of sinful yesterday.