Praise to God, Immortal Praise

Praise to God

im­mor­tal praise

For the love that crowns our days;

Bounteous source of ev­ery joy

Let Thy praise our tongues em­ploy.

Flocks that whit­en all the plain;

Yellow sheaves of rip­ened grain;

Clouds that drop their fat­ten­ing dews

Suns that tem­per­ate warmth dif­fuse.

All that spring with boun­te­ous hand

Scatters o’er the smil­ing land;

All that li­ber­al au­tumn pours

From her rich o’er­flow­ing stores.

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.

Yet

should ris­ing whirl­winds tear

From its stem the rip­en­ing ear;

Should the fig tree’s blast­ed shoot

Drop her green un­time­ly fruit

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

Yet to Thee my soul shall raise

Grateful vows and so­lemn praise;

And

when ev­ery bless­ing’s flown

Love Thee for Thy­self alone.