Dear Father-Mother, Thou dost grant
All good and perfect gifts to me;
’Tis mine to raise this beacon here,
Obedience unto Thee.

He knows not death who Life obeys,
Nor errs at all when Truth he heeds;
While merged in Love, what hold has hate
Upon his thoughts or deeds?

Eternal Life and Truth and Love,
They who obey Thine every call,
Thy freemen are, and freely have
Dominion over all.

Mysterious Presence, Source of all—
The world without, the soul within,
Fountain of life, O hear our call,
And pour Thy living waters in!

Thou breathest in the rushing wind;
Thy Spirit stirs in leaf and flower;
Nor wilt Thou from the willing mind
Withhold Thy light and love and power.

Thy hand unseen to accents clear
Awoke the psalmist’s trembling lyre,
And touched the lip of holy seer
With flame from Thine own altar fire.

That touch divine, still, Lord, impart;
Still give the prophet’s burning word;
And, vocal in each waiting heart,
Let living psalms of praise be heard.

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him, all creatures here below;
Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;
Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Let us mingle our voices in chorus today;
The earth is rejoicing, all nature is gay,
And the stream in the valley goes laughing along;
How happy its beautiful song.

Refrain

Praise the Lord, the Giver of all,
Praise the Lord, the Giver of all;
Let His children with rapture His mercy recall,
The bountiful Giver of all.

There is joy in the sunbeam that sparkles so bright
And calls the young blossoms to welcome the light;
And the bird in the greenwood is singing with glee,
As cheerful and happy as we.

Refrain

Let us join the glad music and joyfully raise,
In purest devotion, our jubilant praise;
We are grateful to God for this beautiful day:
We’ll sing the bright moments away.

Refrain

Thine are all the gifts, O God,
Thine the broken bread;
Let the naked feet be shod
And the starving fed.

Let Thy children, by Thy grace,
Give as they abound,
Till the poor have breathing-space,
And the lost are found.

Wiser than the miser’s hoards
Is the giver’s choice;
Sweeter than the song of birds
Is the thankful voice;

Welcome smiles on faces sad
As the flowers of spring:
Let the tender hearts be glad
With the joy they bring.

Happier for their pity’s sake
Make their sports and plays,
And from the lips of childhood take
Thy perfected praise.