To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise (Arthur Sullivan): Difference between revisions

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{{lyricist|William Chatterton Dix}}
{{lyricist|William Chatterton Dix}}


{{Voicing|4|SATB}} '''Meter:''' {{cat|8 7. 8 7. D.}} Iambic<br>
{{Voicing|4|SATB}}<br>
'''Meter:''' {{cat|87. 87. D (Iambic)}}<br>
{{Genre|Sacred|Hymns}}
{{Genre|Sacred|Hymns}}
{{Language|English}}
{{Language|English}}
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   Which never hath an ending.
   Which never hath an ending.
</poem>
</poem>
[[Category:Sheet music]]
[[Category:Sheet music]]
[[Category:Romantic music]]
[[Category:Romantic music]]

Revision as of 14:45, 16 August 2010

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CPDL #22086: Icon_pdf.gif Icon_snd.gif Capella
Editor: James Gibb (submitted 2010-08-15).   Score information: A4, 1 page, 19 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes:

General Information

Title: To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise
Composer: Arthur Sullivan
Lyricist: William Chatterton Dix

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB

Meter: 87. 87. D (Iambic)
Genre: SacredHymn

Language: English
Instruments:a cappella or Keyboard
Published:

Description:

External websites:

Original text and translations

English.png English text

1. To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise
   In hymns of adoration,
   To Thee bring sacrifice of praise,
   With shouts of exultation.
   Bright robes of gold the fields adorn,
   The Hills with Joy are ringing,
   The valleys stand so thick with corn
   That even they are singing.

2. And now, on this our festal day,
   Thy bounteous hand confessing,
   Before Thee thankfully we lay
   The first-fruits of Thy blessing.
   By Thee the souls of men are fed
   With gifts of grace supernal;
   Thou who dost give us earthly bread,
   Give us the Bread eternal.

3. We bear the burden of the day,
   And often toil seems dreary;
   But labour ends with sunset ray,
   And rest comes to the weary.
   May we, the angel-reaping o'er,
   Stand at the last accepted,
   Christ's golden sheaves, for evermore
   To garners bright elected.

4. O blessèd is that land of God
   Where saints abide for ever,
   Where golden fields spread far and broad,
   Where flows the crystal river.
   The strains of all its holy throng
   With ours today are blending;
   Thrice blessèd is that harvest song
   Which never hath an ending.