Now sing we a song for the har­vest;
Thanksgiving and hon­or and praise,
For all that the boun­ti­ful Giv­er
Hath given to glad­den our days.

For grass­es of up­land and low­land,
For fruits of the gar­den and field,
For gold which the mine and fur­row
To del­ver and hus­band­man yield.

And thanks for the har­vest of beau­ty,
For that which the hands can­not hold;
The har­vest, eyes on­ly can ga­ther,
And on­ly our hearts can en­fold.

We reap it on mount­ain and moor­land,
We glean it from mea­dow and lea,
We gar­ner it from the cloud-land,
We bind it in sheaves from the sea.

But now we sing deep­er and high­er,
Of har­vests the eye can­not see;
They rip­en on mount­ains of du­ty,
Are reaped by the brave and the free.

O Thou who art Lord of the har­vest,
The Giv­er who glad­dens our days,
Our hearts are for­ev­er re­peat­ing,
Thanksgiving, and hon­or, and praise!