’Tis good to sing prais­es of glad­ness,
And shout hal­le­lu­jahs aloud;
It takes from the heart all its sad­ness,
When sor­row our poor hearts has bowed;
Our Fa­ther the brok­en heart heal­eth,
And binds up the wounds of the soul;
His good­ness He ev­er re­veal­eth,
The strick­en He ev­er makes whole.

He makes the grass grow on the mount­ains,
Our fields hold the fin­est of wheat;
He stores up the floods of the fount­ains,
To spring forth the food that we eat.
Let’s praise Him in songs of thanks­giv­ing,
These bless­ings are all from His hand;
He gives us a boun­ti­ful liv­ing,
And bless­es the soil of our land.

He tell­eth the stars in their num­ber,
He call­eth them all by their name;
The clouds He doth rend all asun­der,
And sends to the earth the sweet rain.
And peace is pre­served to the na­tion,
Averted war’s ter­ri­ble flame;
He bless­es us in ev­ery sta­tion,
Thanksgiving sing all to His name.