To calm the sor­rows of the mind,
Our heav’n­ly friend is nigh,
To wipe the anx­ious tear that starts,
Or trem­bles in the eye.

Thou canst, when ang­uish rends the heart,
The sec­ret woe con­trol;
The in­ward ma­la­dy canst heal,
The sick­ness of the soul.

Thou canst re­press the ris­ing sigh,
Canst soothe each mor­tal care;
And ev­ery deep and heart­felt groan
Is waft­ed to Thine ear.

Thy gra­cious eye is watch­ful still;
Thy po­tent arm can save
From threat­en­ing danger and dis­ease,
And all-de­vour­ing grave.

When pale and lang­uid all the frame,
The ruth­less hand of pain
Arrests the fee­ble pow­ers of life,
The help of man is vain.

’Tis Thou, great God! alone canst check
The pro­gress of dis­ease;
And sick­ness, awed by pow­er di­vine,
The high com­mand obeys.

Eternal source of life and health.
And ev­ery bliss we feel!
In sor­row and in joy to Thee
Our grate­ful hearts ap­peal.