giving thanks

Saturday, October 06, 2007
This weekend, at least up here in Canada, it's Thanksgiving.

And on this rainy Saturday afternoon as the wet leaves fall to the ground, I'm thinking about my daughters. Johanna is off in Seattle this weekend with her Nate, and Hillary is up at School, hopefully at her roommates place for the weekend.

And my family is coming up from Saskatoon for lunch tomorrow and I'm thankful for them. And that my dad has gone on ahead, and I will celebrate with him yet again.

And that I have food and shelter, and I don't have to march in the streets and shed blood for freedom.

There is so much to be grateful for.
It's good to have someone to express my gratitude to.

Come, ye thankful people, come,
Raise the song of Harvest - come!
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin;
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied;
Come to God̢۪s own temple, come;
Raise the song of Harvest-home!

What is earth but God̢۪s own field,
Fruit unto his praise to yield?
Wheat and tares therein are sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown;
Ripening with a wondrous power,
Till the final Harvest-hour;
Grant, O Lord of life, that we
Holy grain and pure may be.

Come, then, Lord of Mercy, come,
Bid us sing the Harvest-home!
Let thy saints be gathered in!
Free from sorrow, free from sin;
All upon the golden floor
Praising thee forevermore;
Come, with thousand angels, come;
Bid us sing thy Harvest-home.

Henry Alford

Take a moment, think about it, and say, "Thanks."

1 comment

  1. H-m-m... Well, you've given a rather emasculated version of Henry Alford's great hymn. Not sure he would even recognize it. Alford used the harvest season to remind us that there is a harvest of divine judgment coming. He is reflecting on the Parable of the Tares (Matt. 13:24-30, 36-43), when true believers will be separated from those with merely a veneer of religiosity. Stanzas you have missed make this clear:

    All the world is God’s own field,
    Fruit unto His praise to yield;
    Wheat and tares together sown
    Unto joy or sorrow grown.
    First the blade and then the ear,
    Then the full corn shall appear;
    Lord of harvest, grant that we
    Wholesome grain and pure may be.

    For the Lord our God shall come,
    And shall take His harvest home;
    From His field shall in that day
    All offenses purge away,
    Giving angels charge at last
    In the fire the tares to cast;
    But the fruitful ears to store
    In His garner evermore.


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