Anna Laetitia Barbauld - Praise To God lyrics

Praise to God, immortal praise, For the love that crowns our days; Bounteous source of every joy, Let thy praise our tongues employ; For the blessings of the field, For the stores the gardens yield, For the vine's exalted juice, For the generous olive's use; Flocks that whiten all the plain, Yellow sheaves of ripened grain; Clouds that drop their fattening dews, Suns that temperate warmth diffuse: All that Spring with bounteous hand Scatters o'er the smiling land: All that liberal Autumn pours From her rich o'erflowing stores: These to thee, my God, we owe; Source whence all our blessings flow; And for these my soul shall raise Grateful vows and solemn praise. Yet should rising whirlwinds tear From its stem the ripening ear; Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot Drop her green untimely fruit; Should the vine put forth no more, Nor the olive yield her store; Though the sickening flocks should fall, And the herds desert the stall; Should thine altered hand restrain The early and the latter rain; Blast each opening bud of joy, And the rising year destroy: Yet to thee my soul should raise Grateful vows, and solemn praise; And, when every blessing's flown, Love thee—for thyself alone.