Great God, as sea­sons dis­ap­pear,
And chang­es mark the roll­ing year,
Thy fa­vor still has crowned our days,
And we would ce­le­brate Thy praise.

The har­vest song would we re­peat,
Thou giv­est us the fin­est wheat;
The joys of har­vest we have known;
The praise, O Lord is all Thine own.

Our ta­bles spread, our gar­ners stored,
O give us hearts to bless Thee, Lord:
Forbid it, Source of light and love,
That hearts and lives should bar­ren prove.

Another har­vest comes apace:
Ripen our spi­rits by Thy grace,
That we may calm­ly meet the blow
The sick­le gives to lay us low.

That so, when an­gel reap­ers come
To ga­ther sheaves to Thy blest home,
Our spiri­ts may be borne on high
To Thy safe gar­ner in the sky.