August 13, 2005

141R Come, O Thankful People, Come


1. Come, O thank-ful peo-ple, come, raise the song of har-vest home;
All is safe-ly gath-ered in, ere the win-ter storms be-gin.
God's earth ev-er does pro-vide for our wants to be sup-plied;
Come to God’s own tem-ple, come, raise the song of har-vest home.

2. All the world is God’s own field, fruit un-to prais-es to yield;
Wheat and tares to-geth-er sown un-to joy or sor-row grown.
First the blade and then the ear, then the full corn shall ap-pear;
God of har-vest, grant that we whole-some grain and pure may be.

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Posted by rehurst at 03:51 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack

August 14, 2005

142R We Plow the Fields and Scatter


1. We plow the fields, and scat-ter the good seed on the land,
but it is fed and wa-tered by an al-migh-ty hand;
God sends the snow in win-ter, the warmth to swell the grain,
the bree-zes and the sun-shine, and soft re-fresh-ing rain.

2. God is the heaven-ly mak-er of all things near and far,
who paints the way-side flow-er, who lights the even-ing star;
The winds are led by God's hand, from whom the birds are fed;
Much more to us, God's chil-dren, who bes-tows dai-ly bread.

3. We thank you, then, O Sove-reign, for all things bright and good,
the seed time and the har-vest, our life, our health, and food;
No gifts have we to of-fer, for all your love im-parts,
but that which you do de-sire, our hum-ble, thank-ful hearts.

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August 15, 2005

143R Praise to God, Immortal Praise


1. Praise to God, im-mor-tal praise,
for the love that crowns our days!
Boun-teous Source of eve-ry joy,
Let high praise our tongues em-ploy;
For the bless-ings of the field,
for the stores the gar-dens yield:
Flocks that whit-en all the plain,
yel-low sheaves of ri-pened grain.

2. All that spring with boun-teous hand
scat-ters o’er the smil-ing land;
All that li-beral au-tumn pours
from a rich o’er-flow-ing stores;
These to you, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our bless-ings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
grate-ful vows and so-lemn praise.

3. And should ris-ing whirl-winds tear
from its stem the ripe-ning ear;
Should the vine put forth no more,
nor the o-lives yield their store;
Yet to you our souls shall raise
grate-ful vows and so-lemn praise;
And, when eve-ry bless-ing’s flown
love you for your-self a-lone.

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