Our na­tion seemed to ru­in doomed,
Just like a burn­ing brand;
Till snatched from fierce sur­round­ing flames
By God’s in­dul­gent hand.

Once more, He says, I will sup­press
The wrath that sin would wake,
Once more My pa­tience shall at­tend,
And call this na­tion back.

But who this cle­men­cy re­veres?
Or feels this melt­ing grace?
Who stirs his lang­uid spirit up
To seek Thine aw­ful face?

On days like these we pour our cries,
And at Thy feet we mourn;
Then rise to tempt Thy wrath again,
And to our sins re­turn.

Our na­tion far from God remains,
Far, as in dist­ant years;
And that small rem­nant which is left,
A dy­ing as­pect wears.

Now chast­ened, res­cued thus in vain,
Thy righ­teous hand severe
Into the flames might hurl us back,
And quite con­sume us there.

So by the light our burn­ing gives
Might neigh­bor­ing na­tions read.
How ter­ri­ble Thy judg­ments are,
And learn our guilt to dread.

Yet, ’midst the cry of sins like ours,
Incline Thy gra­cious ear;
And Thine own child­ren’s fee­ble cry
With soft com­pass­ion hear.

O by Thy sacr­ed Spir­it’s breath
Ignite a ho­ly flame;
Refine the land that Thou has spared,
And mag­ni­fy Thy name.