Father, I bless Thy gen­tle hand;
How kind was Thy chas­tis­ing rod
That forced my con­science to a stand,
And brought my wan­der­ing soul to God!

Foolish and vain, I went as­tray
Ere I had felt Thy scourg­es, Lord;
I left my guide, and lost my way;
But now I love and keep Thy Word.

’Tis good for me to wear the yoke,
For pride is apt to rise and swell;
’Tis good to bear my Fa­ther’s stroke,
That I might learn His sta­tutes well.

The law that is­sues from Thy mouth
Shall raise my cheer­ful pas­sions more
Than all the trea­sures of the south,
Or west­ern hills of gold­en ore.

Thy hands have made my mor­tal frame,
Thy Spi­rit formed my soul with­in;
Teach me to know Thy won­drous name,
And guard me safe from death and sin.

Then all that love and fear the Lord
At my sal­va­tion shall re­joice;
For I have hopèd in Thy Word,
And made Thy grace my on­ly choice.