Sunday, July 4, 2010

God Bless America

My native country, thee,

                                                              Land of the noble free,

                                                               Thy name I love.

                                                         I love thy rocks and rills,

                                                    Thy woods and templed hills;

                                                    My heart with rapture fills

                                                             Like that above.


Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

                                  What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?

                              Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,

                              O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?

                                 And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

                               Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.

                                   O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

                             O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 

God Bless America,

Land that I love.
Stand beside her, and guide her

Thru the night with a light from above.

From the mountains, to the prairies,

To the oceans, white with foam

God bless America, My home sweet home.

Let music swell the breeze,
                                                            And ring from all the trees

                                                               Sweet freedom's song.

                                                          Let mortal tongues awake;

                                                        Let all that breathe partake;

                                                       Let rocks their silence break,

                                                             The sound prolong.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:

His truth is marching on.

No comments:

Post a Comment