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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 souls of men are fed
With gifts of grace supernal; Thou Who dost give us daily bread,
Give us the bread eternal.
3  We bear the burden of the day,
And often toil seems dreary; But labor ends with sunset ray, And rest is for the weary:
May we, the angel-reaping o'er, Stand at the last accepted,
Christ's golden sheaves for evermore I To garners bright elected.
4 O blessed is that land of God,
Where saints abide for ever, Where golden fields spread fair and broadi
Where flows the crystal river: The strains of all its holy throng
With ours to-day are blending; Thrice blessed is that harvest-song
Which never hath an ending.
William C. Dix, 1864

E-Book - An Annotated Compendium of Old Time American Songs by James Alverson III