O sing to the Lord, Whose
bountiful hand
Again doth accord His gifts
to the land.
His clouds have shed down
their plenteousness here,
His goodness shall crown the
hopes of the year.
In
clefts of the hills the
founts He hath burst,
And poureth their rills
through valleys athirst,
The river of God the pastures
has blest,
The dry, withered sod in
greenness is dressed.
And every fold shall team
with its sheep,
With harvests of gold the
fields shall be deep;
The vales shall rejoice with
laughter and song,
And man’s grateful voice the
music prolong.
So too may He pour, the
Last and the First,
His graces in store on
spirits athirst,
Till, when the great day of
harvest hath come,
He takes us away to garner at
home.
