A Song of Praise for Provision

COme, let us praise our Masters Hand,
Which gives us daily Bread;
Thy House, my Lord, is full of Guests,
Thy Table Richly Spread:
Earth is thy Table, where thy Guests
Do daily Sit and Feed;
Thy Hand Carves every one his part,
And suffers None to need.

Naked came I into the World,
And nothing with me brought;
And nothing have I here deserv'd,
Yet have I lacked Nought.
I do not Bless my Labouring Hand,
My Labouring Head or Chance;
Thy Providence, most Gracious God,
Is mine Inheritance.

Thy Bounty gives me Bread with Peace,
A Table free from Strife;
Thy Blessing is the Staff of Bread,
Which is the Staff of Life.
The People Sate in Companies,
My Saviour Fed them all;
So all the Families of the Earth
Have Tables in Gods Hall

The Vine and Olive Branches too
Are nourished by thy Care,
Mercies we Eat, Mercies we Drink,
Mercies we daily wear:
Shall I repine against my God
That kept me all my days?
Then let my Tongue forget to taste,
When it forgets to praise.