Classic Poem

God of the wooing spring,
Of pregnant summer, fertile fall,
And winter, wrapped and slumbering;
I hear Thy voice when linnets sing,
Or brooding thunders hoarsely call;
I see Thy hand in everything,
Guiding and shaping all.

God of the perfect year,
God of the living and the dead,
'Tis Thee I thank with grateful tear
For purple grape and yellow ear,
And all these blessings round me spread;
I am Thy child, well known and dear;
From Thy hand I am fed.

Should sorrow come, or pain,
I still would magnify Thy name.
In blighting drought and saving rain,
In wealth increased, and labor vain,
In honor, station, or in shame,
Thy purpose works, obscure or plain;
Thy wisdom lives the same.