4 Then, thou Church triumphant, come, Raise the song of Harvest-home! All are safely gathered in, Free from sorrow, free from sin; There for ever, purified, In God’s garner to abide; Come, ten thousand angels, come, Raise the glorious Harvest-home!
1237 8s & 4s. Thy paths drop fatness. Psalm 65:11.
Lord of the harvest! thee we hail; Thine ancient promise doth not fail; The varying seasons haste their round, With goodness all our years are crowned; Our thanks we pay This holy day; O let our hearts in tune be found!
2 If spring doth wake the song of mirth; If summer warms the fruitful earth; When winter sweeps the naked plain, Or autumn yields its ripened grain; Still do we sing To thee, our King; Through all their changes thou dost reign.
3 But chiefly when thy liberal hand Scatters new plenty o’er the land, When sounds of music fill the air, As homeward all their treasures bear; We too will raise Our hymn of praise, For we thy common bounties share.
4 Lord of the harvest! all is thine! The rains that fall, the suns that shine, The seed once hidden in the ground, The skill that makes our fruits abound! New, every year, The gifts appear; New praises from our lips shall sound!
1238 13s & 14s. All thy works praise thee. Psalm 145:10.
When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil, When summer’s balmy showers refresh the mower’s toil; When winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood, In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns his Maker good.
2 The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade; The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy glade; The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way, The moon and stars their Maker’s name in silent pomp display.
3 Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky— Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny! No, let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be, Thee, Father, must we always love—Creator! honor thee.
4 The flowers of spring may wither, the hope of summer fade, The autumn droop in winter, the bird forsake the shade; The winds be lulled—the sun and moon forget their old decree; But we, in nature’s latest hour, Lord, will cling to thee!