God reigns; ev­ents in or­der flow,
Man’s in­dus­try to guide;
But in a dif­fer­ent chan­nel go,
To hum­ble hu­man pride.

The swift, not al­ways, in the race,
Shall win the crown­ing prize;
Not al­ways wealth and hon­or grace
The la­bors of the wise.

Fond mor­tals do them­selves be­guile,
When on them­selves they rest;
Blind is their wis­dom, vain their toil,
By Thee, O Lord, un­blest.

’Tis ours the fur­rows to pre­pare,
And sow the pre­cious grain;
’Tis Thine to give the sun and air,
And to com­mand the rain.

Evil and good be­fore Thee stand,
Their mis­sion to per­form;
The sun shines bright at Thy com­mand;
Thy hand di­rects the storm.

In all Thy ways, we hum­bly own
Thy pro­vi­den­tial pow­er;
Entrusting to Thy care alone
The lot of ev­ery hour.