1 Should the rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the rip'ning ear;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit:

2 Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store;
Thought the sick'ning flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall:

3 Should God's alter'd hand restrain
The early and the latter rain;
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy:

4 Yet to God my soul should raise
Grateful vows, and solemn praise;
And, when ev'ry blessings flown,
Love him--for himself alone.