O God, who didst Thy will un­fold
In won­drous modes to saints of old,
By dream, by ora­cle, or seer,
Wilt Thou not still Thy peo­ple hear?

What though no an­swer­ing voice is heard!
Thine ora­cles, the writ­ten Word,
Counsel and guid­ance still im­part,
Responsive to the up­right heart.

What though no more by dreams is shown
That fu­ture things to God are known;
Enough the pro­mis­es re­veal:
Wisdom and love the rest con­ceal.

Faith asks no sig­nal from the skies,
To show that pray­ers ac­cept­ed rise;
Our priest is in the ho­ly place,
And an­swers from the throne of grace.

No need of pro­phets to in­quire:
The sun is ris’n; the stars re­tire;
The Com­fort­er is come, and sheds
His ho­ly unc­tion on our heads.

Lord, with this grace our hearts in­spire;
Answer our sac­ri­fice by fire;
And by Thy migh­ty acts de­clare
Thou art the God who hear­eth pray­er.