Harvest. Acts. 14. 17

Boyce   C.M.

Great sovereign Lord, what human eye
Amidst thy works can rove,
And not thy liberal hand espy,
Nor trace thy bounteous love?

Each star that gilds the heavenly frame,
On earth each verdant clod,
In language loud to men proclaim
The great and bounteous God.

The lesson each revolving year
Repeats in various ways;
Rich thy provisions, Lord, appear:
The poor shall shout thy praise.

Our fruitful fields and pastures tell,
Of man and beast thy care;
The thriving corn thy breezes fill,
Thy breath perfumes the air.

But oh, what human eye can trace,
Or human heart conceive,
The greater riches of thy grace
Impoverished souls receive?

Love everlasting has not spared
Its best belovèd Son;
And in him endless life prepared,
For souls by sin undone.

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