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650 GERMANY L. M.

Wm. Gardiner's "Sacred Melodies," 1815

1 Great God, we sing that might-y hand By which sup- port- ed still we stand;

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The ope-ning year Thy mercy shows; That mercy crowns it till it close. A - MEN.

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652 NUREMBERG 7.7.7.7.

Alt. from Johann R. Ahle, 1664

1 Praise to God, im- mor- tal praise, For the love that crowns our days:

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2 Flocks that whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain,
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse;

3 All that Spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores;-

Let Thy praise our tongues em - ploy. A-MEN.

4 These to Thee, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

5 Sing we to our God above
Praise eternal as His love;
Praise Him, all ye heavenly host,
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Mrs. Anna L. Barbauld, 1772. Doxology (Rev. Charles Wesley, 1740) added

ST. AUSTELL 7.7.7.7.

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Arthur H. Brown, 1876

1 For Thy mer cy and Thy grace, Faith -ful through an - other year,

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Hear our song of thank - ful - ness; Father, and Re-deem - er, hear. A-MEN.

(See also HORTON, No. 570)

653 GREENLAND 7.6.7.6.D.

Arr. from J. Michael Haydn in B. Jacob's "National Psalmody," 1819

1 Sing to the Lord of har vest, Sing songs of love

and praise;

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654 GOLDEN SHEAVES 8.7.8.7.D.

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1 To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise In hymns of

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To Thee bring sac ri - fice of praise With shouts of

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Bright robes of gold the fields a- dorn, The hills with joy

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The valleys stand so thick with corn That e- ven they are singing.

(See also BISHOPGARTH, No. 394)

A-MEN.

2 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 us daily bread,

Give us the Bread eternal.

3 We bear the burden of the day,
And often toil seems dreary;
But labor ends with sunset ray,
And rest is for the weary:

May we, the angel-reaping o'er,
Stand at the last accepted,
Christ's golden sheaves for evermore
To garners bright elected.

4 O blessed is that land of God Where saints abide for ever, Where golden fields spread fair and broad.

Where flows the crystal 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.

William C. Dix, 1864

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Come to God's own tem- ple, come, Raise the song of har-vest-home. A-MEN.

2 All the world is God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown:
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear:
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

3 For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest home;
From His field shall in that day
All offences purge away;

Give His angels charge at last In the fire the tares to cast, But the fruitful ears to store In His garner evermore.

4 Even so, Lord, quickly come
To Thy final harvest-home;
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin;
There for ever purified,
In Thy presence to abide:
Come, with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest-home.

Rev. Henry Alford, 1844 (Text of 1867)

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