Now sing we a song for the harvest
1 Now sing we a song for the harvest,
Thanksgiving and honor and praise,
For all that the bountiful Giver
Hath given to gladden our days:
2 For grasses of upland and lowland,
For fruits of the garden and field,
For gold which the mine and the prairie
To delver and husband-man yield.
3 And thanks for the harvest of beauty,
For that which the hands cannot hold,
The harvest eyes only can gather,
And only our hearts can enfold:
4 We reap it on mountain and moorland,
We glean it from meadow and lea,
We garner it in from the cloud-land,
We bind it in sheaves from the sea.
5 But now we sing deeper and higher,
Of harvests that eye cannot see;
They ripen on mountains of duty
Are reaped by the brave and the free.
6 And these have been gathered and garnered, Some golden with honour and gain, And some as with heartís blood are ruddy, The harvests of sorrow and pain.
7 O Thou who art Lord of the harvest,
The Giver who gladdens our days,
Our hearts are forever repeating
Thanksgiving and honor, and praise.