Now the Year Is Crowned with Blessing

Now the year is crowned with bless­ing

As we ga­ther in the grain;

And

our grate­ful thanks ex­press­ing

Loud we raise a joy­ous strain.

Bygone days of toil and sad­ness

Cannot now our peace de­stroy

For the hills are clothed with glad­ness

And the val­leys shout for joy.

To the Lord their first-fruits bring­ing

All His thank­ful people come

To the Fa­ther prais­es sing­ing

For the joy of Har­vest-Home.

In the spring the smil­ing mea­dows

Donned their robes of liv­ing green

As the sun­shine chased the shadows

Swiftly o’er the chang­ing scene;

In the sum­mer time the sto­ry

Of a rip­er hope was told;

Then the rich au­tum­nal glo­ry

Decked the fields in cloth of gold.

Shall not we

whose hearts are swell­ing

With the thought of for­mer days

Sing a joy­ous song fore­tell­ing

Future glad­ness

full­er praise?

For the cloud the bow re­tain­eth

With its co­ve­nant of peace

That

as long as earth re­main­eth

Harvest time shall nev­er cease.

Though the fig tree may not flour­ish

Though the vine no fruit may yield

Though the earth no flocks may nour­ish

In the fold or in the field

Still our hearts will trust His pow­er

Who the ra­vens stoops to feed

And the hand that clothes each flow­er

Shall sup­ply our ut­most need.