God the source of every blessing.

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 gen'rous olive's use;

Flocks that whiten all the plain; Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain; Clouds that drop their fatt'ning dews; Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse; All that spring, with bounteous hand, Scatters o'er the smiling land; All that lib'ral 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.