In pleasant lands have fallen the lines
That bound our goodly heritage,
And safe beneath our sheltering vines
Our youth is blest, and soothed our age.
What thanks, O God, to Thee are due,
That Thou didst plant our fathers here,
And watch and guard them as they grew,
A vineyard to the planter dear!
The toils they bore our ease have wrought;
They sowed in tears,—in joy we reap;
The birthright they so dearly bought
We’ll guard, till we with them shall sleep.
Thy kindness to our fathers shown,
In weal and woe, through all the past,
Their grateful sons, O God, shall own,
While here their name and race shall last.