Now the year is crowned with bless­ing
As we ga­ther in the grain;
And, our grate­ful thanks ex­press­ing,
Loud we raise a joy­ous strain.
Bygone days of toil and sad­ness
Cannot now our peace de­stroy,
For the hills are clothed with glad­ness
And the val­leys shout for joy.

Refrain

To the Lord their first-fruits bring­ing,
All His thank­ful people come,
To the Fa­ther prais­es sing­ing
For the joy of Har­vest-Home.

In the spring the smil­ing mea­dows
Donned their robes of liv­ing green,
As the sun­shine chased the shadows
Swiftly o’er the chang­ing scene;
In the sum­mer time the sto­ry
Of a rip­er hope was told;
Then the rich au­tum­nal glo­ry
Decked the fields in cloth of gold.

Refrain

Shall not we, whose hearts are swell­ing
With the thought of for­mer days,
Sing a joy­ous song fore­tell­ing
Future glad­ness, full­er praise?
For the cloud the bow re­tain­eth
With its co­ve­nant of peace,
That, as long as earth re­main­eth,
Harvest time shall nev­er cease.

Refrain

Though the fig tree may not flour­ish,
Though the vine no fruit may yield,
Though the earth no flocks may nour­ish
In the fold or in the field,
Still our hearts will trust His pow­er
Who the ra­vens stoops to feed,
And the hand that clothes each flow­er
Shall sup­ply our ut­most need.

Refrain