1 Praise to God, immortal praise,
for the love that crowns our days!
Bounteous source of every joy,
let thy praise our tongues employ:

2 for the blessings of the fields,
for the stores the gardens yield,
flocks that whiten all the plain,
yellow sheaves of ripened grain;

3 all that spring with bounteous hand
scatters o'er the smiling land;
all that liberal autumn pours
from her rich o'erflowing stores.

4 These to thee, my God, we owe,
source whence all our blessings flow;
and for these our souls shall raise
grateful vows and solemn praise.