Jesus, Thou God of na­tions, bend
The skies, and let the rain des­cend,
But not Thy wrath—in mer­cy bless
This land with show­ers of right­eous­ness.

Pour down some to­kens of Thy love;
Impending pun­ish­ment re­move:
Pour down the Spir­it of Thy grace,
That ev­ery soul may seek Thy face.

Forbid this land should ev­er be
Forsaken ut­ter­ly by Thee!
Let not Thy sore dis­plea­sure rest
Upon a na­tion so dis­tressed.

Her woes, her po­ver­ty, her need,
With Thy com­pas­sion we would plead;
Enrich her, Lord, in ev­ery place,
With all the ple­ni­tude of grace.

O wa­ter ev­ery sac­red ground,
Where’er the seeds of truth are found,
And make the fruits of Zi­on’s hill
The glo­ry of this na­tion still.

Why should this once high-fa­vored place
Be ev­er ban­ished from Thy face?
Let not our sin our ru­in prove,
In wrath des­cend not, but in love.