The earth thou visit'st, wat'ring it; thou mak'st it rich to grow With God's full flood; thou corn prepar'st, when thou provid'st it so.
A river is, whose streams do glad the city of our God; The holy place, wherein the Lord most high hath his abode.
He in thy borders maketh peace; with fine wheat filleth thee.
There sow they fields, and vineyards plant, to yield fruits of increase.
So thou the year most lib'rally dost with thy goodness crown; And all thy paths abundantly on us drop fatness down.
Lord, thee my God, I'll early seek: my soul doth thirst for thee; My flesh longs in a dry parch'd land, wherein no waters be: