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 joy which harvests bring,
Grateful praises now we sing.
As Thy prosp'ring hand hath blest,
May we give Thee of our best;
And by deeds of kindly love
For Thy mercies grateful prove.
Alternate verses:
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
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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
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