To Thee, O LORD, our hearts we raise,

In hymns of adoration,

To Thee bring sacrifice of praise,
With shouts of exultation;
Bright robes of gold the fields adorn,
The hills with joy are ringing,
The valleys stand so thick with corn,
That even they are singing.
And now on this our Festal day,

Thy bounteous Hand confessing,
Upon Thine Altar, LORD, we lay
The first fruits of Thy blessing;
By Thee the souls of men are fed
With gifts of grace supernal,
Thou, who dost give our earthly bread,
Give us the Bread Eternal.

We bear the burden of the day,
And often toil seems dreary,
But labour ends with sunset ray,

And rest comes for the weary;
May we, at GOD'S great Harvest-Home,
Stand at the last accepted,
CHRIST'S golden sheaves for evermore
To garners bright elected.

Oh, blessed is that land of GOD,
Where Saints abide for ever,

Where golden fields spread far and wide,
Where flows the golden river;
The strains of all its holy throng
With ours to-day are blending,
Thrice blessed is that harvest song
Which never hath an ending! Amen.

329 S. ALBAN'S (321). 6.5., 12 lines.

From S. Alban's, Holborn, Tune Book.

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