A Thanksgiving Poem

The sun hath shed its kindly light,     Our harvesting is gladly o'er     Our fields have felt no killing blight,     Our bins are filled with goodly store.     From pestilence, fire, flood, and sword     We have been spared by thy decree,     And now with humble hearts, O Lord,     We come to pay our thanks to thee.     We feel that had our merits been     The measure of thy gifts to us,     We erring children, born of sin,     Might not now be rejoicing thus.     No deed of ours hath brought us grace;     When thou were nigh our sight was dull,     We hid in trembling from thy face,     But thou, O God, wert merciful.     Thy mighty hand o'er all the land     Hath still been open to bestow     Those blessings which our wants demand     From heaven, whence all blessings flow.     Thou hast, with ever watchful eye,     Looked down on us with holy care,     And from thy storehouse in the sky     Hast scattered plenty everywhere.     Then lift we up our songs of praise     To thee, O Father, good and kind;     To thee we consecrate our days;     Be thine the temple of each mind.     With incense sweet our thanks ascend;     Before thy works our powers pall;     Though we should strive years without end,     We could not thank thee for them all.