Thanksgiving

Now gracious plenty rules the board,And in the purse is gold;By multitudes in glad accordThy giving is extolled.Ah, suffer me to thank Thee, Lord,For what thou dost withhold!

I thank Thee that howe'er we climbThere yet is something higher;That though through all our reach of timeWe to the stars aspire,Still, still beyond us burns sublimeThe pure sidereal fire!

I thank Thee for the unexplained,The hope that lies before,The victory that is not gained,—O Father, more and moreI thank Thee for the unattained,The good we hunger for!

I thank Thee for the voice that singsTo inner depths of being;For all the spread and sweep of wings,From earthly bondage freeing;For mystery—the dream of thingsBeyond our power of seeing!