Shepherd of souls, with pi­ty­ing eye
The thou­sands of our Is­ra­el see:
To Thee, in their be­half we cry,
Ourselves but new­ly found in Thee.

See, where o’er de­sert wastes they err,
And nei­ther food nor feed­er have,
Nor fold, nor place of re­fuge near;
For no man cares their souls to save.

Thy peo­ple, Lord, are sold for naught,
Nor know they their Re­deem­er nigh;
They per­ish, whom Thy­self hast bought;
Their souls for lack of know­ledge die.

The pit its mouth hath op­ened wide,
To swal­low up its care­less prey;
Why should they die, when Thou hast died,
Hast died to bear their sins away?

Why should the foe Thy pur­chase seize?
Remember, Lord, Thy dy­ing groans:
The meed of all Thy suf­fer­ings these;
O claim them for Thy ran­somed ones!

Extend to these Thy par­don­ing grace;
To these be Thy sal­va­tion showed:
O add them to Thy chos­en race!
O sprin­kle all their hearts with blood!

Still let the pub­li­cans draw near:
Open the door of faith and Hea­ven;
And grant their hearts Thy word to hear,
And wit­ness all their sins for­giv­en.