O grant me, Lord, that sweet con­tent,
That sweet­ens ev­ery state;
Which no in­ter­nal fears can rent,
Nor out­ward foes abate.
Thou wilt keep him in per­fect peace—
Thy word the truth hath said—
Who, clothed with Thy great right­eous­ness,
Thy arm his strength has made.

Grant me then, Lord, a con­trite heart,
A meek and qui­et breast;
Thy own un­spot­ted mind im­part,
Thy own un­shak­en rest.
That rest for hum­ble souls pre­pared,
The bo­som of Thy love;
Where pa­tience finds her full re­ward,
When per­fect­ed above.

Give me then grace this rest to seek,
And, as I seek, to find;
My heart all pure, my soul all meek,
The co­py of Thy mind.
So shall I know Thy ut­most pow­er,
Thy ut­most glo­ry prove;
And in eter­ni­ty adore
The match­less gift of love!