Lord of life, all praise ex­cell­ing,
Thou, in glo­ry un­confined,
Deignst to make Thy hum­ble dwell­ing
With the poor of hum­ble mind.

And Thy love, through all cre­ation,
Beams like Thy dif­fus­ive light;
So the high and hum­ble sta­tion
Both are eq­ual in Thy sight.

Thus Thy care, for all pro­vid­ing,
Warmed Thy faith­ful pro­phet’s tongue;
Who, the lot of all de­cid­ing,
To Thy chos­en Is­ra­el sung.

When Thy har­vest yields Thee plea­sure,
Thou the gold­en sheaf shall bind;
To the poor be­longs the trea­sure
Of the scat­tered ears be­hind.