My soul, re­peat His praise,
Whose mer­cies are so great;
Whose an­ger is so slow to rise,
So rea­dy to abate.

God will not al­ways chide;
And when His strokes are felt,
His strokes are few­er than our crimes,
And light­er than our guilt.

High as the heav’ns are raised,
Above the ground we tread,
So far the rich­es of His grace
Our high­est thoughts ex­ceed.

His pow­er sub­dues our sins;
And His for­giv­ing love
Far as the east is from the west,
Doth all our guilt re­move.

The pity of the Lord,
To those that fear His name,
Is such as ten­der par­ents feel;
He knows our fee­ble frame.

He knows we are but dust,
Scattered with ev­ery breath;
His an­ger like a ris­ing wind
Can send us swift to death.

Our days as are the grass,
Or like the morn­ing flow­er;
If one sharp blast sweep o’er the field
It wi­thers in an hour.

But Thy com­pass­ions, Lord,
To end­less years en­dure;
And child­ren’s child­ren ev­er find
Thy words of pro­mise sure.