Bless, O my soul, the liv­ing God.
Call home thy thoughts that rove abroad,
Let all the pow­ers with­in me join
In work and wor­ship so di­vine.

Bless, O my soul, the God of grace;
His fa­vors claim thy high­est praise:
Why should the won­ders He hath wrought
Be lost in si­lence and forgot?

’Tis He, my soul, that sent His Son
To die for crimes which thou hast done;
He owns the ran­som and for­gives
The hour­ly fol­lies of our lives.

The vic­es of the mind He heals,
And cures the pains that na­ture feels;
Redeems the soul from hell, and saves
Our wast­ing life from threat­en­ing graves.

Our youth de­cayed, His pow­er re­pairs;
His mer­cy crowns our grow­ing years:
He sa­tis­fies our mouth with good,
And fills our hopes with heav’n­ly food.

He sees th’op­press­or and th’op­pressed,
And oft­en gives the suf­fer­ers rest;
But will His jus­tice more dis­play
In the last great re­ward­ing day.

His pow­er He showed by Mos­es’ hands,
And gave to Is­ra­el His com­mands;
But sent His truth and mer­cy down
To all the na­tions by His Son.

Let the whole earth His pow­er con­fess.
Let the whole earth adore His grace;
The Gen­tile with the Jew shall join
In work and wor­ship so di­vine.