When spring un­locks the flow­ers
To paint the laugh­ing soil;
When sum­mer’s bal­my show­ers
Refresh the mow­er’s toil;
When win­ter binds in fros­ty chains
The fal­low and the flood;
In God the earth re­joic­eth still
And owns his mak­er good.

The birds that wake the morn­ing
And those that love the shade;
The winds that sweep the mount­ain
Or lull the drow­sy glade;
The sun that from his am­ber bow­er
Rejoiceth on his way,
The moon and stars their mas­ter’s name
In si­lent pomp dis­play.

Shall man, the lord of na­ture,
Expectant of the sky,
Shall man alone, un­thank­ful,
His lit­tle praise de­ny?
No, let the year for­sake his course,
The sea­sons cease to be,
Thee, Mas­ter, must we al­ways love,
And Sav­ior, hon­or Thee.

The flow­ers of spring may wi­ther,
The hope of sum­mer fade,
The au­tumn droop in win­ter,
The birds for­sake the shade;
The winds be lulled—the sun and moon
Forget their old de­cree;
But we, in na­ture’s lat­est hour,
O Lord! will cling to Thee!