For The Love That Crowns Our Days;
Bounteous Source Of Every Joy,
Let Thy Praise Our Tongues Employ.
Flocks That Whiten All The Plain;
Yellow Sheaves Of Ripened Grain;
Clouds That Drop Their Fattening Dews,
Suns That Temperate Warmth Diffuse.
All That Spring With Bounteous Hand
Scatters Over The Smiling Land;
All That Liberal Autumn Pours
From Her Rich Overflowing Stores.
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.
Yet, Should Rising Whirlwinds Tear
From Its Stem The Ripening Ear;
Should The Fig Tree’s Blasted Shoot
Drop Her Green Untimely Fruit,
Should The Vine Put Forth No More,
Nor The Olive Yield Her Store;
Though The Sickening Flocks Should Fall,
And The Herds Desert The Stall,
Yet To Thee My Soul Shall Raise
Grateful Vows And Solemn Praise;
And, When Every Blessing’s Flown
Love Thee For Thyself Alone.