1 To thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise in hymns of adoration, to thee bring sacrifice of praise with shouts of exultation: bright robes of gold the fields adorn, the hills with joy are ringing, the valleys stand so thick with corn that even they are singing. 2 And now, on this our festal day, thy bounteous hand confessing, upon thine altar, Lord, we lay the first-fruits of thy blessing: by thee the hungry soul is fed with gifts of grace supernal; thou who dost give us earthly bread, give us the bread eternal. 3 We bear the burden of the day, and often toil seems dreary; but labour ends with sunset ray, and rest comes for the weary: may we, the angel-reaping o'er, stand at the last accepted, Christ's golden sheaves for evermore to garners bright elected. 4 O blessèd is that land of God, where saints abide for ever; where golden fields spread far and broad, where flows the crystal river: the strains of all its holy throng with ours today are blending; thrice blessèd is that harvest-song which never hath an ending.