Our fathers’ God! from out whose hand The centuries fall like grains of sand, We meet to-day, united, free, And loyal to our land and Thee, To thank Thee for the era done, And trust Thee for the opening one. Here, where of old, by Thy design, The fathers spake that word of Thine Whose echo is the glad refrain Of rended bolt and falling chain, To grace our festal time, from all The zones of earth our guests we call. Be with us while the New World greets The Old World thronging all its streets, Unveiling all the triumphs won By art or toil beneath the sun; And unto common good ordain This rivalship of hand and brain. Thou, who hast here in concord furled The war flags of a gathered world, Beneath our Western skies fulfil The Orient’s mission of good-will, And, freighted with love’s Golden Fleece, Send back its Argonauts of peace. For art and labor met in truce, For beauty made the bride of use, We thank Thee; but, withal, we crave The austere virtues strong to save, The honor proof to place or gold, The manhood never bought nor sold! Oh make Thou us, through centuries long, In peace secure, in justice strong; Around our gift of freedom draw The safeguards of thy righteous law: And, cast in some diviner mould, Let the new cycle shame the old! 1876.
Centennial Hymn
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