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Thanksgiving

The cornfields are ripe and the apples are red.
Full are the barn and the bin;
The herds on the prairies numberless head.
The harvest is now gathered in.

The forest ____, the shop and the mine
Have gladdened the grateful heart;
The looms have been clacking, the weaving is fine,
And voices are loud in the mart.

The children are laughing and running to school.
Everywhere is the Spirit call.
Fair Science is straining to widen her rule
The earth, sea and air to enthrall.

A moment of silence -- a rapturous thrill --
Let's give our thanksgiving to God,
For all these good gifts of his bounteous will
Are poured on America's sod.

The people in answer responsive arise,
Each heart is now turned to a shrine;
The old hymns would sing themselves out to the skies,
And lips to the old prayers incline.

But the old songs fall short; tongues falter and halt.
The music is just off the key. The harvest is wondrous,
so where is the fault -- What lacks in our jubilee?

Then the soul breaks forth of that worshiping host
In Te Deum that shall not cease.
We thanks thee Lord for the harvest rich, but most
For our harvest of peace.

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