Dear Lord! be­hold our sore dis­tress;
Our sins at­tempt to reign;
Stretch out Thine arm of con­quer­ing grace,
And let Thy foes be slain.

The li­on with his dread­ful roar
Affrights Thy fee­ble sheep:
Reveal the glo­ry of Thy pow­er,
And chain him to the deep.

Must we in­dulge a long des­pair?
Shall our pe­ti­tions die?
Our mourn­ings ne­ver reach Thine ear,
Nor tears af­fect Thine eye?

If Thou des­pise a mor­tal groan,
Yet hear a Sav­ior’s blood;
An ad­vo­cate so near the throne
Pleads and pre­vails with God.

He brought the Spir­it’s pow­er­ful sword
To slay our dead­ly foes;
Our sins shall die be­neath Thy Word,
And hell in vain op­pose.

How bound­less is our Fa­ther’s grace,
In height, and depth, and length!
He makes his Son our right­eous­ness,
His Spir­it is our strength.