O throned, O crowned with all re­nown,
Since Thou the earth hast trod,
Thou reign­est, and by Thee come down
Henceforth the gifts of God.
By Thee the suns of space, that burn
Unspent, their watch­es hold;
The hosts that turn, and still re­turn
Are swayed, and poised, and rolled.

The pow­ers of earth, for all her ills,
An end­less trea­sure yield;
The pre­cious things of an­cient hills,
Forest, and fruit­ful field;
Thine is the health, and Thine the wealth
That in our halls abound;
And Thine the beau­ty and the joy
With which the years are crowned.

And as, when ebbed the flood, our sires
Kneeled on the mount­ain sod,
While o’er the new world’s al­tar fires
Shone out the bow of God;
And sweet­ly fell the peace­ful spell—
Word that shall aye avail—
Summer and win­ter shall not cease,
Seed time nor har­vest fail.

Thus in their change let frost and heat
And winds and dew be giv’n;
All fos­ter­ing power, all in­flu­ence sweet,
Breathe from the boun­te­ous Heav’n.
Attemper fair with gen­tle air
The sun­shine and the rain,
That kind­ly earth with time­ly birth
May yield her fruits again;

That we may feed Thy poor aright,
And, ga­ther­ing round Thy throne,
Here in the ho­ly an­gels’ sight
Repay Thee of Thine own.
For so our sires in old­en time
Spared nei­ther gold nor gear,
Nor pre­cious wood, nor hewen stone,
Thy sac­red shines to rear.

For there to give the se­cond birth
In mys­ter­ies and signs,
The face of Christ o’er all the earth
On keel­ing myr­iads shines.
And if so fair be­yond compare
Thine earth­ly houses be,
In how great grace shall we Thy face
In Thine own pa­lace see?