are ring-ing,

9:3

2 And now, on this our festal day, Thy bounteous hand confessing, Upon Thine altar, Lord, we lay The first-fruits of Thy blessing: By Thee the souls of men are fed

With gifts of grace supernal; Thou Who dost give us daily bread, Give us the bread eternal.

3 We bear the burden of the day,

And often toil seems dreary; But labor ends with sunset ray, And rest is for the weary:

May we, the angel-reaping o'er,
Stand at the last accepted,
Christ's golden sheaves for evermore
To garners bright elected.

4 O blessed is that land of God,
Where saints abide for ever,
Where golden fields spread fair and broad,
Where flows the crystal river:
The strains of all its holy throng
With ours to-day are blending;
Thrice blessed is that harvest-song
Which never hath an ending.

WILLIAM C. Dix, 1864

9:5 bb