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Verse 1

Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days:
Bounteous Source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ.

Verse 2

Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse.

Verse 3

All that Spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o’er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o’erflowing stores;—

Verse 4

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.

Verse 5

Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig-tree’s blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit;

Verse 6

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;—

Verse 7

Yet to Thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And, when every blessing’s flown,
Love Thee for Thyself alone.