Full is our harvest, and the waving grain
Whispers through sun-filled hours of mercies sent;
Heaven's ear bends low to catch the faintest strain
Of human gratitude midst life's content.
Oh, sing a song that naught of sorrow leaves;
Send forth unceasing thoughts of love untold;
Then blissful, go and gather in thy sheaves
And lo! thy harvest is a thousandfold.
