How hast Thou, Lord, from year to year,
Our land with plen­ty crowned!
And gen­er­ous fruit and gold­en grain
Have spread their rich­es round.

But we Thy mer­cies have abused
To more abound­ing crimes;
What heights, what dar­ing heights in sin
Disgrace and mark our times!

Equal, though aw­ful, is the doom,
That fierce des­cend­ing rain
Should into in­un­da­tions swell,
And crush the ris­ing grain!

How just, that in the au­tumn’s reign,
When we had hoped to reap,
Our fields of sor­row and des­pair
Should lie a hi­de­ous heap!

But Lord, have mer­cy on our land,
Those floods of ven­geance stay:
Dispel these glooms, and let the sun
Shine in un­cloud­ed day!

To Thee alone we look for help;
None else of dew or rain
Can give the world the small­est drop
Or small­est drop re­strain.