  1230L. M. Seed-time and harvest. Eternal Source of every joy, Well may thy praise our lips employ, While in thy temple we appear, Whose goodness crowns the circling year. 2 The flowery spring at thy command Embalms the air and paints the land; The summer rays with vigor shine, To raise the corn and cheer the vine. 3 Thy hand in autumn richly pours Through all our coasts redundant stores, And winters, softened by thy care, No more a face of horror wear. 4 Seasons and months, and weeks and days, Demand successive songs of praise; Still be the cheerful homage paid With opening light and evening shade! 5 O! may our more harmonious tongues In worlds unknown pursue the songs; And in those brighter courts adore, Where days and years revolve no more! 1231C. M. Psalm 147. With songs and honors sounding loud, Address the Lord on high; Over the heaven’s he spreads his cloud, And waters vail the sky. 2 He sends his showers of blessings down To cheer the plains below; He makes the grass the mountains crown, And corn in valleys grow. 3 His steady counsels change the face Of the declining year; He bids the sun cut short his race, And wintery days appear. 4 His hoary frost, his fleecy snow, Descend and clothe the ground; The liquid streams forbear to flow, In icy fetters bound. 5 He sends his word, and melts the snow, The fields no longer mourn; He calls the warmer gales to blow, And bids the spring return. 6 The changing wind, the flying cloud, Obey his mighty word; With songs and honors sounding loud, Praise ye the sovereign Lord. 1232C. M. Thou crownest the year with thy goodness. Fountain of life, and God of love! How rich thy bounties are! The rolling seasons, as they move, Proclaim thy constant care. 2 When in the bosom of the earth The sower hid the grain, Thy goodness marked its secret birth, And sent the early rain. 3 The spring’s sweet influence, Lord, was thine, Its mild, refreshing showers; Thou gavest the ripening suns to shine, And summer’s golden hours. 4 Thy quickening life, for ever near, Matured the swelling grain; The bounteous harvest crowns the year, And plenty fills the plain. 5 With thankful hearts we trace thy way Through all our smiling vales; Thou, by whose love, nor night nor day, Seed-time nor harvest, fails! 1233S. M. Psalm 126:6. The harvest dawn is near, The year delays not long; And he who sows with many a tear, Shall reap with many a song. 2 Sad to his toil he goes, His seed with weeping leaves; But he shall come, at twilight’s close, And bring his golden sheaves. 12346s & 4s. The God of harvest praise. The God of harvest praise; In loud thanksgiving raise Hand, heart and voice; The valleys smile and sing, Forests and mountains ring, The plains their tribute bring, The streams rejoice. 2 Yea, bless his holy name, And purest thanks proclaim Through all the earth; To glory in your lot Is duty—but be not God’s benefits forgot, Amidst your mirth. 3 The God of harvest praise; Hands, hearts, and voices raise, With sweet accord: From field to garner throng, Bearing your sheaves along, And in your harvest song, Bless ye the Lord. 12357s, 6 lines. The little hills rejoice on every side. Praise, and thanks, and cheerful love, Rise from everything below, To the mighty One above, Who his wondrous love doth show: Praise him, each created thing! God, your Maker; God of spring! 2 Praise him, trees so lately bare; Praise him, fresh and new-born flowers; All ye creatures of the air, All ye soft-descending showers, Praise, with each awakening thing, God, your Maker; God of spring! 3 Praise him, man!—thy fitful heart Let this balmy season move To employ its noblest part, Gentlest mercy, sweetest love; Blessing, with each living thing, God, your Father; God of spring! 12367s, double. Harvest-Home. Come, ye thankful people, come, Raise the song of Harvest-home! All is safely gathered in, Ere the winter-storms begin; God, our Maker, doth provide For our wants to be supplied; Come to God’s own temple, come, Raise the song of Harvest-home! 2 We ourselves are God’s own field, Fruit unto his praise to yield; Wheat and tares together sown, Unto joy our sorrow grown: First the blade, and then the ear, Then the full corn shall appear: Lord of harvest, grant that we Wholesome grain and pure may be! 3 For the Lord our God shall come, And shall take his harvest home! From his field shall purge away All that doth offend, that day; Give his angels charge at last In the fires the tares to cast, But the fruitful ears to store In his garner evermore. 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! 12378s & 4s. Thy paths drop fatness. 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! 123813s & 14s. All thy works praise thee. 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! |
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