Eternal source of every joy,
Well may Thy praise our lips employ,
While in Thy temple we appear,
Whose goodness crowns the circling year.
The flowery spring at Thy command
Embalms the air and paints the land;
The summer rays with vigour shine,
To raise the corn, and cheer the vine.
Thy hand in autumn richly pours
Through all our coasts redundant stores,
And winters, soften'd by Thy care,
No more a face of horror wear.
Seasons and months and weeks and days
Demand successive songs of praise ;
Still be the cheerful homage paid
With opening light and evening shade!
Oh! may our more harmonious tongues
In worlds unknown pursue the songs;
And in those brighter courts adore,
Where days and years revolve no more!
Philip Doddridge. 1755
Fountain of mercy! God of love!
How rich Thy bounties are! The rolling seasons, as they move, Proclaim Thy constant care.
When in the bosom of the earth
The sower hid the grain,
Thy goodness mark'd its secret birth,
And sent the early rain.
The spring's sweet influence was Thine,
The plants in beauty grew ;
Thou gav'st refulgent suns to shine,
And mild refreshing dew.
These various mercies from above,
Matur'd the swelling grain ;
A yellow harvest crowns Thy love,
And plenty fills the plain.
Seed-time and harvest, Lord, alone
Thou dost on man bestow;
Let him not then forget to own
From whom his blessings flow!
Fountain of love! our praise is Thine;
To Thee our songs we'll raise,
And all created Nature join
In sweet harmonious praise!
Lord, in Thy Name Thy servants plead,
And Thou hast sworn to hear;
Thine is the harvest, Thine the seed,
The fresh and fading year.
Our hope, when autumn winds blew wild,
We trusted, Lord, with Thee;
And now, that spring has on us smiled,
We wait on Thy decree.
The former and the latter rain,
The summer sun and air,
The green ear, and the golden grain,
All Thine, are ours by prayer.
Thine too by right, and ours by grace,
The wondrous growth unseen,
The hopes that soothe, the fears that brace,
The love that shines serene !
So grant the precious things brought forth By sun and moon below,
That Thee, in Thy new heaven and earth, We never may forego !
To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,
The God whom we adore,
Be glory, as it was, is now,
And shall be evermore!
Praise, O praise our God and King,
Hymns of adoration sing,
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
Praise Him that He made the sun
Day by day his course to run,
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
And the silver moon by night,
Shining with her gentle light,
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
Praise Him that He gave the rain
To mature the swelling grain,
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
And hath bid the fruitful field
Crops of precious increase yield;
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
Praise Him for our harvest-store;
He hath fill'd the garner-floor;
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
And for richer food than this,
Pledge of everlasting bliss ;
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
Glory to our bounteous King!
Glory let Creation sing!
Glory to the Father, Son,
And blest Spirit, Three in One!
Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ.
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield;
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use:
Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd 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;
Should Thine alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain ;
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;
Yet to Thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And, when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee for Thyself alone!
Anna Lætitia Barbauld. [1825.]
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