Praise to God, Immortal Praise
Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous Source of every joy,
praise our tongues employ.
Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse.
All that Spring with bounteous hand
Scatters o’er the smiling
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
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
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