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 heart’s 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.