To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise
In hymns of adoration,
To Thee bring sacrifice of praise
With shouts of exultation.
Bright robes of gold the fields adorn,
The hills with joy are ringing,
The valleys stand so thick with corn
That even they are singing.
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 earthly bread,
Give us the Bread eternal.
We bear the burden of the day,
And often toil seems dreary;
But labor ends with sunset ray,
And rest comes for the weary.
May we, the angels reaping o’er,
Stand at the last accepted,
Christ’s golden sheaves forevermore,
To garners bright elected.
Oh, blessed is that land of God
Where saints abide forever,
Where golden fields spread fair and broad,
Where flows the crystal river.
The strains of all its holy throng
With ours today are blending;
Thrice blessed is that harvest song
Which never hath an ending.
— The Lutheran Hymnal, “To Thee, O Lord, Our Hearts We Raise,” 573.