O Sing to the Lord, Whose Bountiful Hand

O sing to the Lord

whose boun­ti­ful hand

Again doth ac­cord His gifts to the land.

His clouds have shed down their plen­te­ous­ness here

His good­ness shall crown the hopes of the year.

In clefts of the hills the founts He hath burst

And pour­eth their rills through val­leys athirst

The riv­er of God the pas­tures has blest

The dry

wi­thered sod in green­ness is dressed.

And ev­ery fold shall teem with its sheep

With har­vests of gold the fields shall be deep;

The vales shall re­joice with laugh­ter and song

And man’s grate­ful voice the mu­sic pro­long.

So too may He pour

the Last and the First

His grac­es in store on spir­its athirst

Till

when the great day of har­vest hath come

He takes us away to gar­ner at home.