The fields are white;
The laborers are few;
Yet say the idle:
There's nothing to do.

Jails are crowded;
In Sunday-schools few;
We still complain:
There's nothing to do.

Drunkards are dying—
Your sons, it is true;
Mothers' arms folded
With nothing to do.

Heathen are dying;
Their blood falls on you;
How can you people
Find nothing to do?