When in the golden harbor of Thanksgiving Day The harvest season sinks, at rest; ‘Tis then I raise my song of humble gratitude For bounties richly given of nature’s best. In every fertile field, in every patch of grain, I see God’s loving hands; his substance there Bestowed to satisfy the hungry ones; For he is ever mindful of our cares.

Lord, may my constant prayer be like the sage of old: “Withhold from me stark poverty, I ask; Lest I be poor, and like a pauper bold Steal vagrantly, and cast aside my task; But, Lord, deny me flaunting riches too, Lest, arrogant, my vain heart proudly say: ‘Who is the Lord, what can his power do?’ Feed me with needful food, I humbly pray!”