Lord, in this dark, this aw­ful hour,
When na­tions trem­ble at Thy pow­er,
We see, we own Thy lift­ed hand,
Extended o’er our na­tive land.

We just­ly fear Thy wrath should rise,
For oh, our guilt has pierced the skies!
The strength of king­doms Thou hast broke:
O spare our na­tive land the stroke.

At the loud trum­pet’s mar­tial blast,
Ruin has laid cre­ation waste;
And man against his bro­ther steeled,
Strews vic­tims o’er th’em­pur­pled field.

While war ex­hausts the vi­tal flood,
And stains the earth with hu­man blood;
The moon looks down up­on the scene,
With pla­cid orb, and ray se­rene!

O bid these vile con­ten­tions cease,
And bless the jar­ring world with peace;
Let earth par­take the sweet repose,
That ev­ery planet round her knows.

Thy hand alone can wrath con­trol,
And soothe to rest the an­gry soul;
Return, re­turn, O God of love,
And war with all its curse re­move.