The Lord! how ten­der is His love,
His jus­tice how au­gust;
Hence all her fears my soul de­rives,
There an­chors all her trust.
He show­ers the ma­nna from above,
To feed the bar­ren waste;
Or points with death the fie­ry hail,
And fa­mine waits the blast.

Crowns, realms, and worlds, His wrath in­censed,
Are dust be­neath His tread:
He blights the fair, un­plumes the proud,
And shakes the learn­èd head.
He bids dis­tress for­get to groan,
The sick from ang­uish cease,
In dun­geons spreads His heal­ing wing,
And soft­ly whis­pers peace.

His ven­geance rides the rush­ing wind,
Or tips the bolt with flame;
His good­ness breathes in ev­ery breeze,
And warms in ev­ery beam.
Lord! grant that still with grate­ful heart
My years re­signed may run;
’Tis Thine to give, or to re­sume,
And may Thy will be done!