With songs and hon­ors sound­ing loud,
Address the Lord on high;
Over the heav’ns He spreads His cloud,
And waters veil the sky.

He sends His show­ers of bless­ing down
To cheer the plains be­low;
He makes the grass the mount­ains crown,
And corn in val­leys grow.

He gives the graz­ing ox his meat,
He hears the ra­ven’s cry;
But man, who tastes His fin­est wheat,
Should raise His hon­ors high.

His stea­dy coun­sels change the face
Of the de­clin­ing year;
He bids the sun cut short his race,
And win­try days ap­pear.

His hoa­ry frost, His flee­cy snow,
Descend and clothe the ground;
The li­quid streams for­bear to flow,
In icy fet­ters bound.

When from the dread­ful stores on high
He pours the rat­tling hail,
The wretch that dares this God de­fy
Shall find his cour­age fail.

He sends His Word, and melts the snow,
The fields no long­er mourn;
He calls the warm­er gales to blow,
And bids the spring re­turn.

The chang­ing wind, the fly­ing cloud,
Obey His migh­ty Word:
With songs and hon­ors sound­ing loud,
Praise ye the so­ve­reign Lord.