In Pleasant Lands

In plea­sant lands have fall­en the lines

That bound our good­ly her­it­age

And safe be­neath our shel­ter­ing vines

Our youth is blest

and soothed our age.

What thanks

O God

to Thee are due

That Thou didst plant our fa­thers here

And watch and guard them as they grew

A vine­yard to the plant­er dear!

The toils they bore our ease have wrought;

They sowed in tears

in joy we reap;

The birth­right they so dear­ly bought

We’ll guard

till we with them shall sleep.

Thy kind­ness to our fa­thers shown

In weal and woe

through all the past

Their grate­ful sons

O God

shall own

While here their name and race shall last.