As from the winter sky,
When keen the tempests blow,
O'er fields that waste and barren lie,
Descends the softening snow;

Not with ice-binding cold
To chill the stubborn soil,
But crumble and prepare the mould
To meet the plougher's toil.

Then dew, rain, thunder-showers
With milk and honey feed
The infant family of flowers,
And nurse the sower's seed.

Till autumn-sunshine bland,
The grateful ground receives,
And harvest-moonlight, o'er the land,
Brings home the reaper's sheaves:--

Thus, in the reign of grace,
Come gospel-blessings down,
And where they fall or shine, the place
With love, joy, peace, they crown.

God's word, His will performs,
And in this world, destroy'd
By sin and death, through calms or storms,
Returns not to Him void.

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May our great union-field,
Where precious seed is sown,
Harvests of souls in season yield
To gather round His throne.