To God most aw­ful and most high,
Who formed the earth, the sea, the sky;
To Him on whom all worlds de­pend,
Our hum­bled hearts in sighs we send.

Will He who hears the ra­vens cry,
Reject our pray­ers, and bid us die?
Will He re­fuse His keep to yield,
Who clothes the li­lies of the field?

Pale fa­mine lifts at His co­mmand,
Her wi­ther­ing arm, and blasts the land;
The har­vests per­ish at her breath,
Her train are want, dis­ease, and death.

But when He smiles, the de­sert blooms,
New life is born among the tombs;
O’er the glad plains abun­dance teems,
And plen­ty rolls in boun­te­ous streams.

Father of grace whom we ad­ore,
Bless Thy large fa­mi­ly—the poor;
The poor on Thee alone de­pend,
Continue Thou the poor man’s friend.

Content to live by toil and pain,
May we eter­nal rich­es gain;
Meanwhile, by Thy free good­ness fed,
Give us this day our dai­ly bread.