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Thanksgiving

by J. R. Eastwood

The village church, a quaint old pile,
Stands where the quiet meadows smile,
Dotted with sheep, and, reaped and bare,
The stubble fields, and orchards fair.

Pleasant it was that Sabbath morn
To see the mighty stacks of corn,
And joyful on that blessed day
To feel that toil was put away.

Sweet, in the church, it was to hear
The harvest anthem rising clear,
And in those tuneful strains outpoured
To join the praises of the Lord.

For from our hearts that song arose
To Him Whose loving kindness flows
To crown with joy a thousand lands,
And bless the labour of our hands.

The anthem ceased, and still I thought
On all the mercies God had wrought:
And in my heart I took away
This lesson of that Sabbath day.

The sweetest song can ill declare
The praises of the worshipper;
The life of service must express
The heart's desire of thankfulness.