The thought­less brute his mas­ter knows
And loves the hand that gives him food;
But Me, from whom their be­ing flows,
Sole au­thor of their to­tal good,
The Lord, and friend of all man­kind,
My peo­ple have not sense to find.

Duller than beasts the hu­man herd,
Though fed with bless­ings from above,
My peo­ple pay Me no re­gard,
Nor own My pro­vi­den­tial love,
Nor for their kind pre­serv­er care
In whom they live, and move, and are.