God the Fa­ther! Whose cre­ation
Gives to flow­ers and fruits their birth,
Thou, whose year­ly op­era­tion
Brings the hour of har­vest mirth,
Here to Thee we make obla­tion
Of the Au­gust-gold of earth.

God the Word! the sun, ma­tur­ing
With his bless­èd ray the corn,
Spake of Thee, O Sun en­dur­ing,
Thee, O ev­er­last­ing Morn!
Thee in whom our woes find cur­ing
Thee that lift­est up our horn.

God the Ho­ly Ghost! the show­ers
That have fat­tened out the grain,
Types of Thy ce­les­ti­al pow­ers,
Symbols of bap­tis­mal rain,
Shadowed out the grace that dow­ers
All the faith­ful of Thy train.

When the har­vest of each na­tion
Severs right­eous­ness from sin,
And arch­an­gel pro­cla­ma­tion
Bids to put the sick­le in,
And each age and ge­ne­ra­tion
Sink to woe, or glo­ry win;

Grant that we, or young, or hoa­ry,
Lengthened be our span or brief,
Whatsoe’er the life long sto­ry
Of our joy or of our grief,
May be gar­nered up in glo­ry
As Thine own elect­ed sheaf.

Laud to Him to whom su­per­nal
Thrones and vir­tues bend the knee;
Laud to Him from whom in­fer­nal
Powers and do­mi­na­tions flee;
Laud to Him the co-eter­nal
Paraclete, for­ev­er be.