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Praise to God, immortal praise (original) 
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