mel-low rays; All earth's thousand voic

3 Lord, upon our blindness
Thy pure radiance pour;
For Thy loving-kindness

Make us love Thee more.
And when clouds are drifting,
Dark across our sky,
Then, the veil uplifting,
Father, be Thou nigh.

4 We will never doubt Thee,
Though Thou veil Thy light;
Life is dark without Thee,
Death with Thee is bright.
Light of light, shine o'er us

On our pilgrim way;
Go Thou still before us

To the endless day.

Wm. Walsham How, 1871

1

COME, ye thankful people, come,

Raise the song of harvest-home!

All is safely gathered in, Ere the winter storms begin; God, our Maker, doth provide For our wants to be supplied: Come to God's own temple, come, Raise the song of harvest-home! 2 All the world is God's own field, Fruit unto His praise to yield; Wheat and tares together sown, Unto joy or sorrow grown: First the blade, and then the ear, Then the full corn shall appear:Lord of harvest, grant that we Wholesome grain and pure may be.

3 For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest home;
From His field shall in that day
All offences purge away;
Give His angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast,
But the fruitful ears to store
In His garner evermore.

4 Even so, Lord, quickly come
To Thy final harvest-home;
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin,
There for ever purified,
In Thy presence to abide:

Come, with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest-home!

Henry Alford, 1844 (text of 1867)

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, For grasses of upland and lowland,

For fruits of the garden and field, For gold which the mine and the furrow To delver and husbandman yield.

2 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.

We

reap it on mountain and moorland; We glean it from meadow and lea; We garner it in from the cloudland;

We bind it in sheaves from the sea.

3 But the song it goes deeper and higher; There are harvests that eye cannot see; They ripen on mountains of duty,

Are reaped by the brave and the free. O Thou, who art Lord of the harvest, The Giver who gladdens our days, Our hearts are for ever repeating Thanksgiving and honor and praise.

John W. Chadwick, 1871