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Praise to God, immortal praise,
for the love that crowns our days;
bounteous source of every joy,
let thy praise our tongues employ:
for the blessings of the fields,
for the stores the garden yields,
flocks that whiten all the plain,
yellow sheaves of ripened grain:
all that spring with bounteous hand
scatters o'er the smiling land:
all that liberal autumn pours;
from her rich o'erflowing stores:
These to thee, O God, we owe:
source whence all our blessings flow;
and for these our souls shall raise
grateful vows and solemn praise.
for a four-line version set to Monkland, click