« AnteriorContinuar »
f 3 Praise to our God ; (m) the Vine He set f 5 Praise to our God; (P) who still forbears, Within our coasts is fruitful yet;
Who still this guilty nation spares ; On many a shore her seedlings grow; px Who calls us still to seek His face,
'Neath many a sun her clusters glow. (And lengthens out our day of grace. f 4 Praise to our God; (m) His power f 6 Praise to our God; (m) though chastenalone
ings stern Can keep unmoved our ancient Throne, Our evil dross should throughly burn; Sustained by counsels wise and just, His rod and staff, from age to age, And guarded by a people's trust.
Shall ruleand guide His heritage! Amen.
Also the following :--
SIR GEORGE ELVEY.
276 “He will gather His wheat into the garner."-St. Matt. iii. 12. f 1 COME, ye thankful people, come, 3 For the Lord our God shall come, Raise the song of Harvest-Home !
And shall take His harvest home; All is safely gathered in,
p From His field shall in that day Ere the winter storms begin :
ÞAll offences purge away ; God, our Maker, doth provide
p Give His Angels charge at last For our wants to be supplied :
p In the fire the tares to cast; Come to God's own temple, come, cres. But the fruitful ears to store
Raise the song of Harvest-Home ! In His garner evermore.
To Thy final Harvest-Home !
Gather Thou Thy people in, Unto joy or sorrow grown ;
Free from sorrow, free from sin ; First the blade, and then the ear,
There, for ever purified,
In Thy presence to abide :
Come, with all Thine Angels, come, Wholesome grain and pure may be. O! Raise the glorious Harvest-Home !
“Neither is he that planteth any thing, neither he that watereth;
but God that giveth the increase."-1 Cor. iii. 7.
I HOLY is the seed-time, when the buried grain cres. Sinks to sleep in darkness, but to wake again.
Holy is the spring-time, when the living corn cres. Bursting from its prison riseth like the morn.
2 Holy is the harvest, when each ripened ear,
Bending to the sickle, crowns the golden year.
Be the harvest holy which our hearts shall yield ;
Glory to the Saviour, who hath sown the seed ;
978 “Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but
if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."-St. John xii. 24. I LORD of the frost-bound Winter, F 5 A thousand times ten thousand, Lord of the happy Spring,
Here in Thy harvest-field,
Good in His glorious goodness,
In Him their fulness yield. 2 Lord of the waving harvest
f 6 And they again upspringing,
f At Thy great Harvest-Home. 3 A holier Seed Thou sowedst
7 Oh! keep us, Lord, for ever ; That Seed Thy blessed Son,
Thy living Spirit give; as Who died, and who was buried
With Christ from sin to perish, P] In the dark earth alone.
In Christ for aye to live. 4 But not alone uprose He ;
F 8 All praise to God the Father,
All praise to God the Son,
All praise to God the Spirit, n Live in that living Root.
Eternal Three in One! Amen.
279 “ The Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.”—Ps. cxvi. 7.
Thine ancient promise doth not fail ; Scatters new plenty o'er the land,
We too will raise
Our hymn of praise, Oh, lei our hearts in tune be found! For we Thy common bounties share. 2 When Spring doth wake the song of 4 Lord of the Harvest ! all is Thine ; mirth,
The rains that fall, the suns that shine,
New, every year,
Thy gifts appear ;
“Because the Lord thy God shall bless thee in all thine increase,
shalt surely rejoice.”-Deut. xvi. 15.
F 1 PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
2 All the blessings of the fields,
All the stores the garden yields,
Suns that genial warmth diffuse,
“ I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all
His people.”—Ps. cxvi. 14.
F 1 To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise, 2 And now, on this our festal day,
Thy bounteous hand confessing, To Thee bring sacrifice of praise, Upon Thine Altar, Lord, we lay With shouts of exultation.
The first-fruits of Thy blessing : Bright robes of gold the fields adorn, By Thee the souls of men are fed The hills with joy are ringing ;
With gifts of grace supernal ;
Give us the Bread Eternal.
m May we, the Angel-reaping o'er,
Christ's golden sheaves for evermore
To garners bright elected !
Where saints abide for ever ;
Where flows the crystal river.
With ours to-day are blending ;