Lord of the Harvest, Thee We Hail
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Lord of the harvest, Thee we hail; Thine ancient promise doth not fail; The varying seasons haste their round With goodness all our years are crown'd, Our thanks we pay This holy day; Oh let our hearts in tune be found.
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If spring doth wake the song of mirth; If summer warms the fruitful earth; When winter sweeps the need plain, Or autumn yields its ripen'd grain, I Still do we sing to Thee, our King; Through all their changes Thou dostreign.
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But chiefly, when Thy liberal hand Scatters new plenty o'er the land, When sounds of music fill the air, As homeward all their treasures bear; We too will raise our hymn of praise, For we Thy common bounties share.
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Lord of the harvest, all is Thine: The rains that fall, the suns that shine, The seed once hidden in the ground, The skill that makes our fruits abound; New every year Thy gifts appear; New praises from our lips shall sound.