Harvest. Acts. 14. 17
Boyce C.M.
1
Great sovereign Lord, what human eye
Amidst thy works can rove,
And not thy liberal hand espy,
Nor trace thy bounteous love?
2
Each star that gilds the heavenly frame,
On earth each verdant clod,
In language loud to men proclaim
The great and bounteous God.
3
The lesson each revolving year
Repeats in various ways;
Rich thy provisions, Lord, appear:
The poor shall shout thy praise.
4
Our fruitful fields and pastures tell,
Of man and beast thy care;
The thriving corn thy breezes fill,
Thy breath perfumes the air.
5
But oh, what human eye can trace,
Or human heart conceive,
The greater riches of thy grace
Impoverished souls receive?
6
Love everlasting has not spared
Its best belovèd Son;
And in him endless life prepared,
For souls by sin undone.
