To Thee, O Lord

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 first-fruits of Thy blessing:

By Thee the souls of men are fed

With gifts of grace supernal;

Thou who dost give us 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 is for the weary;

May we, the angel-reaping o'er,

Stand at the last accepted,

Christ's golden sheaves for evermore,

To garners bright elected.

O blessèd is that land of God

Where saints abide for ever,

Where golden fields spread fair and broad,

Where flows the crystal river:

The strains of all its holy throng

With ours to-day are blending;

Thrice blessèd is that harvest-song

Which never hath an ending.

Amen.