Hymn 43
Praise to God, immortal praise,
Yìn Ọlọrun, yin lailai
- 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,
For the vine's refreshing juice;
For the generous olive's use. - Flocks that whiten all the plain;
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain;
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse. - 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, my God, we owe,
Source whence all our blessings flow;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise. - Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear;
Should the fig-tree’s blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit, - Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Though the sickening flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall, - Yet to Thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise;
And, when every blessing’s flown
Love Thee for Thyself alone. Amen.