THANKSGIVING.

Father, our thanks are due to thee

For many a blessing given,

By thy paternal love and care,

From the bounty-horn of heaven.

We know that still that horn is filled

With blessings for our race,

And we calmly look thro’ winter's storm

To thy benignant face.

Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,—

Who seldom thanked before;

And seldom bent the stubborn knee

Thy goodness to adore:

But Father, thou hast blessings poured

On all our wayward days

And now thy mercies manifold

Have filled our hearts with praise

The winter-storm may rack and roar;

We do not fear its blast;

And we'll bear with faith and fortitude

The lot that thou hast cast.

But Father,— Father,— O look down

On the poor and homeless head

And feed the hungry thousands

That cry to thee for bread.

Thou givest us our daily bread;

We would not ask for more;

But, Father, give their daily bread

To the multitudes of poor.

In all the cities of the land

The naked and hungry are;

O feed them with thy manna, Lord,

And clothe them with thy care.

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord,

We will not give a stone;

For the bread and meat thou givest us

Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us

From thy all-bounteous horn

We'll cheerfully divide that loaf

With the hungry and forlorn.