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 firstfruits of Thy
blessing.
By Thee all human souls are
led with gifts of grace
supernal;
Thou, Who gives us our daily
bread, give us the bread
eternal.
We bear the burden of the
day, and often toil seems
dreary;
But labor ends with sunset
ray, and rest comes for the
weary.
May we, the angel reaping
over, stand at the last
accepted,
Christ’s golden sheaves,
forevermore to garners bright
elected.
O blessèd is that land of
God where saints abide
forever,
Where golden fields spread
fair and broad, where flows
the crystal river.
The strains of all its holy
throng with ours today are
blending;
Thrice blessèd is that harvest
song which never hath an
ending.
