To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise
In hymns of adoration,
To Thee bring sacrifice of praise
With shouts of exultation.
Bright robes of gold the fields adorn,
The hills with joy are ringing,
The valleys stand so thick with corn
That even they are singing.

And now, on this our festal day,
Thy bounteous hand confessing,
Upon Thine altar, Lord, we lay
The firstfruits of Thy blessing.
By Thee all human souls are led
With gifts of grace supernal;
Thou, who gives us our daily bread,
Give us the bread eter­nal.

We bear the bur­den of the day,
And often toil seems dreary;
But labor ends with sunset ray,
And rest comes for the weary.
May we, the angel reaping o’er,
Stand at the last accepted,
Christ’s golden sheaves, for­ev­er­more
To garners bright elected.

O blessèd is that land of God
Where saints abide for­ev­er,
Where golden fields spread fair and broad,
Where flows the crystal river.
The strains of all its holy throng
With ours today are blending;
Thrice blessèd is that harvest song
Which ne­ver hath an ending.