’Tis good to sing praises of gladness,
And shout hallelujahs aloud;
It takes from the heart all its sadness,
When sorrow our poor hearts has bowed;
Our Father the broken heart healeth,
And binds up the wounds of the soul;
His goodness He ever revealeth,
The stricken He ever makes whole.

He makes the grass grow on the mountains,
Our fields hold the finest of wheat;
He stores up the floods of the fountains,
To spring forth the food that we eat.
Let’s praise Him in songs of thanksgiving,
These blessings are all from His hand;
He gives us a bountiful living,
And blesses the soil of our land.

He telleth the stars in their number,
He calleth them all by their name;
The clouds He doth rend all asunder,
And sends to the earth the sweet rain.
And peace is preserved to the nation,
Averted war’s terrible flame;
He blesses us in every station,
Thanksgiving sing all to His name.