  Now the golden ear wants the reaper's hand, Banish every fear, plenty fills the land. Joyful raise songs of praise, Goodness, goodness, crowns our days. Yet again swell the strain, He who feeds the birds that fly, Will our daily wants supply. CHORUS— As the manna lay, on the desert ground, So from day to day, mercies flow around. As a father's love gives his children bread, So our God above grants, and we are fed. Think in the morning what thou hast to do this day, and at night what thou hast done; and do nothing upon which thou mayest not boldly ask God's blessing; nor nothing for which thou shalt need to ask his pardon.—Anon. |
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