Thanksgiving.

A poem by Hanford Lennox Gordon

[Nov. 26, 1857, during the great financial depression.]

Father, our thanks are due to thee
For many a blessing given,
By thy paternal love and care,
From the bounty-horn of heaven.

We know that still that horn is filled
With blessings for our race,
And we calmly look thro' winter's storm
To thy benignant face.

Father, we raise our thanks to Thee,
Who seldom thanked before;
And seldom bent the stubborn knee
Thy goodness to adore:

But Father, thou hast blessings poured
On all our wayward days
And now thy mercies manifold
Have filled our hearts with praise

The winter-storm may rack and roar;
We do not fear its blast;
And we'll bear with faith and fortitude
The lot that thou hast cast.

But Father, Father, O look down
On the poor and homeless head
And feed the hungry thousands
That cry to thee for bread.

Thou givest us our daily bread;
We would not ask for more;
But, Father, give their daily bread
To the multitudes of poor.

In all the cities of the land
The naked and hungry are;
O feed them with thy manna, Lord,
And clothe them with thy care.

Thou dost not give a serpent, Lord,
We will not give a stone;
For the bread and meat thou givest us
Are not for us alone.

And while a loaf is given to us
From thy all-bounteous horn
We'll cheerfully divide that loaf
With the hungry and forlorn.

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