The Lord, how won­drous are His ways!
How firm His truth! How large His grace!
He takes His mer­cy for His throne,
And thence He makes His glo­ries known.

Not half so high His pow­er hath spread
The star­ry heav’ns above our head,
As His rich love ex­ceeds our praise,
Exceeds the high­est hopes we raise.

Not half so far hath na­ture placed
The ris­ing morn­ing from the west,
As His for­giv­ing grace re­moves
The dai­ly guilt of those He loves.

How slow­ly doth His wrath arise!
On swift­er wings sal­va­tion flies;
And if He lets His an­ger burn,
How soon His frowns to pi­ty turn.

Amidst His wrath com­pass­ion shines;
His strokes are light­er than our sins;
And while His rod cor­rects His saints,
His ear in­dulg­es their com­plaints.

So fa­thers their young sons chas­tise
With gen­tle hand and melt­ing eyes;
The child­ren weep be­neath the smart,
And move the pi­ty of their heart.

The migh­ty God, the wise and just,
Knows that our frame is fee­ble dust;
And will no hea­vy loads im­pose
Beyond the strength that He be­stows.

He knows how soon our na­ture dies,
Blasted by ev­ery wind that flies;
Like grass we spring, and die as soon,
Or morn­ing flow­ers that fade at noon.

But His eter­nal love is sure
To all the saints, and shall en­dure;
From age to age His truth shall reign,
Nor child­ren’s child­ren hope in vain.