Frances Ridley Havergal
Thanks be to God, to Whom earth owes
Sunshine and breeze,
The heath-clad hill, the vale’s repose,
Streamlet and seas,
The snowdrop and the summer rose,
The many-voiced trees.
Thanks for the darkness that reveals
Night’s starry dower;
And for the sable cloud that heals
Each fevered flower,
And for the rushing storm that peals
Our weakness and Thy power.
Thanks for the sweetly-lingering might
In music’s tone;
For paths of knowledge, whose calm light
Is all Thine own;
For thoughts that at the Infinite
Fold their bright wings alone.
Yet thanks that silence oft may flow
In dew-like store;
Thanks for the mysteries that show
How small our lore;
Thanks that we here so little know,
And trust Thee all the more!
Thanks for the gladness that entwines
Our path below,
Each sunrise that incarnadines
The cold, still snow;
Thanks for the light of love which shines
With brightest earthly glow.
Thanks for the sickness and the grief
Which none may flee,
For loved ones standing now around
The crystal Sea,
And for the weariness of heart
Which only rests in Thee.
Thanks for Thine own thrice-blessèd Word,
And Sabbath rest;
Thanks for the hope of glory stored
In mansions blest;
Thanks for the Spirit’s comfort poured
Into the trembling breast.
Thanks, more than thanks, to Him ascend,
Who died to win
Our life, and every trophy rend
From death and sin;
Till, when the thanks of earth shall end,
The thanks of Heaven begin!