1 COME, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of Harvest-home!
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin;
God our Maker doth provide
For our wants to be supplied :
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of Harvest-home!
2 We ourselves are 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:
Grant, O harvest Lord, 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 Then, thou church triumphant come, Raise the song of Harvest-home! All are safely gathered in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin,
There, forever purified,
In God's garner to abide :
Come, ten thousand angels, come,
Raise the glorious Harvest-home!
Henry Alford, 1865.
1 PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let thy praise our tongues employ.
2 For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield;
For the fruits in full supply,
Ripened 'neath the summer sky,
3 Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain ;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews;
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse:
4 All that spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores:
5 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.
Anna Lætitia Barbauld, 1773, α.
1 ETERNAL Source of every joy,
Well may thy praise our lips employ
While in thy temple we appear,
Whose goodness crowns the circling year.
2 The flowery spring, at thy command,
Embalms the air and paints the land;
The summer rays with vigor shine,
To raise the corn and cheer the vine.
3 Thy hand in autumn richly pours
Through all our coasts redundant stores;
And winters, softened by thy care,
No more a face of horror wear.
4 Seasons, and months, and weeks, and days,
Demand successive songs of praise;
Still be the cheerful homage paid,
With opening light and evening shade.
5 Oh may our more harmonious tongue
In worlds unknown pursue the song;
And in those brighter courts adore,
Where days and years revolve no more!
1 GOD of the world, near and afar
Thy glories shine in earth and star;
We see thy love in opening flower,
In distant orb thy wondrous power.
2 God of the harvest, sun and shower
Own the high mandate of thy power;
Plenty her rich profusion strews
When thou dost bid or want her woes.
3 God of our lives, the throbbing heart
Doth at thy beck its action start,
Throbs on, obedient to thy will,
Or ceases at thy fatal chill.
4 God of eternal life, thy love
Doth every stain of sin remove;
To thine exalted Son shall come [home.
Earth's wandering tribes to find their
5 God of all goodness, to the skies
Our hearts in grateful anthems rise;
And to thy service shall be given
The rest of life, the whole of heaven.
S. S. Cutting, 1835.
1 THE God of harvest praise;
Hands, hearts, and voices raise,
With sweet accord;
From field to garner throng,
Bearing your sheaves along,
And in your harvest song
Bless ye the Lord.
2 Yea, bless his holy name,
And your souls' thanks proclaim
Through all the earth;
To glory in your lot
Is duty; but be not
God's benefits forgot
Amidst your mirth.
1 THE spring-tide hour brings leaf and
With songs of life and love; [flower,
And many a lay wears out the day
In many a leafy grove.
Bird, flower, and tree seem to agree
Their choicest gifts to bring;
But this poor heart bears not its part, -
In it there is no spring.
2 Dews fall apace, the dews of
Upon this soul of sin,
And love divine delights to shine
Upon the waste within:
Yet, year by year, fruits, flowers, appear,
And birds their praises sing;
But this poor heart bears not its part, —
Its winter has no spring.
3 Lord, let thy love, fresh from above,
Soft as the south-wind blow;
Call forth its bloom, wake its perfume,
And bid its spices flow:
And when thy voice makes earth rejoice,
And nature laugh and sing,
Lord, make this heart to bear its part,
And join the praise of spring.
John S. B. Monsell, 1850.
1 THY mighty working, mighty God,
Wakes all my powers; I look abroad,
And can no longer rest;
I, too, must sing when all things sing,
And from my heart the praises ring
The Highest loveth best.
2 If thou, in thy great love to us,
Wilt scatter joy and beauty thus
O'er this poor earth of ours;
What nobler glories shall be given
Hereafter in thy shining heaven,
Set round with golden towers!
3 What thrilling joy, when on our sight Christ's garden beams in cloudless light, Where all the air is sweet;
Still laden with th' unwearied hymn
From all the thousand seraphim
Who God's high praise repeat!
4 Oh were I there! oh that I now
Before thy throne, my God, could bow,
And bear my heavenly palm!
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