To Thee, O Lord, our hearts we raise (Arthur Sullivan)

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  • (Posted 2021-02-21)  CPDL #63087:       
Editor: Andrew Sims (submitted 2021-02-21).   Score information: A4, 1 page, 46 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: The hymn with four-part harmony and underlaid words in the version published in Hymns Ancient & Modern New Standard
  • (Posted 2021-02-21)  CPDL #63086:       
Editor: Andrew Sims (submitted 2021-02-21).   Score information: A4, 1 page, 123 kB   Copyright: CPDL
Edition notes: The hymn in the version published in Hymns Ancient & Modern New Standard, melody with words.
  • (Posted 2010-08-15)  CPDL #22086:         
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
Tune: Golden sheaves
Lyricist: William Chatterton Dix

Number of voices: 4vv   Voicing: SATB
Genre: SacredHymn   Meter: 87. 87. D (iambic)

Language: English
Instruments: A cappella or keyboard

First published: 1874
  2nd published: 1983 in Hymns Ancient and Modern, New Standard, no. 291
Description: For a descant, see Golden Sheaves (Andrew Sims).

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.