4. Lord, how Thy wonders are displayed Where’er we turn our eyes, Whene’er we view the ground we tread Or gaze upon the skies! 5. There’s not a plant nor flower below But makes Thy glories known; And clouds arise and tempests blow By order from Thy throne. 6. On Thee each moment we depend; If Thou withdraw, we die. Oh, may we ne’er that God offend Who is forever nigh! Isaac Watts, 1715. 294 8, 7, 8 l To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise In hymns of adoration, To Thee bring sacrifice of praise With shouts of exultation: Bright robes of gold the fields adorn, The hills with joy are ringing, The valleys stand so thick with corn That even they are singing. 2. And now, on this our festal day, Thy bounteous hand confessing, Upon Thine altar, Lord, we lay The first-fruits of Thy blessing. By Thee the souls of men are fed With gifts of grace supernal, Thou who dost give us earthly bread, Give us the Bread eternal. 3. We bear the burden of the day And often toil seems dreary; But labor ends with sunset ray, And rest comes for the weary. May we, the angel-reaping o’er, Stand at the last accepted, Christ’s golden sheaves forevermore To garners bright elected. 4. Oh, blessed is that land of God Where saints abide forever; Where golden fields spread fair and broad, Where flows the crystal river. The strains of all its holy throng With ours to-day are blending; Thrice blessed is that harvest-song Which never hath an ending. W. C. Dix, 1864. 295 7s 8 l Come, ye thankful people, come, Raise the song of Harvest-home; All is safely gathered in Ere the winter storms begin; God, our Maker, doth provide For our wants to be supplied. Come to God’s own temple, come; Raise the song of Harvest-home. 2. We ourselves are God’s own field, Fruit unto His praise to yield; Wheat and tares together sown, Unto joy or sorrow grown; First the blade and then the ear, Then the full corn shall appear. Lord of harvest, grant that we Wholesome grain and pure may be. 3. For the Lord, our God, shall come and shall take His harvest home; From His field shall purge away All that doth offend, that day; Give His angels charge at last In the fire the tares to cast, But the fruitful ears to store In His garner evermore.