Praise to God, im­mor­tal praise,
For the love that crowns our days;
Bounteous source of ev­ery joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues em­ploy.

Flocks that whit­en all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of rip­ened grain;
Clouds that drop their fat­ten­ing dews,
Suns that tem­per­ate warmth dif­fuse.

All that spring with boun­te­ous hand
Scatters o’er the smil­ing land;
All that li­ber­al au­tumn pours
From her rich o’er­flow­ing stores.

These to Thee, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our bless­ings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and so­lemn praise.

Yet, should ris­ing whirl­winds tear
From its stem the rip­en­ing ear;
Should the fig tree’s blast­ed shoot
Drop her green un­time­ly fruit,

Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the ol­ive yield her store;
Though the sick­en­ing flocks should fall,
And the herds de­sert the stall,

Yet to Thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and so­lemn praise;
And, when ev­ery bless­ing’s flown
Love Thee for Thy­self alone.