Praise to God, immortal praise,

For the love that crowns our days!

Bounteous source of every joy,

Let thy praise our tongues employ.

2 For the blessings of the field,

For the stores the gardens yield;

For the vine’s exalted juice,

For the generous olive’s use:

3 Flocks that whiten all the plain;

Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;

Clouds that drop their fattening dews;

Suns that temperate warmth diffuse:

4 All that Spring with bounteous hand

Scatters o’er the smiling land;

All that liberal Autumn pours

From her rich o’erflowing stores:

5 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.