To our once fa­vored na­tive land,
[originally, On Bri­tain, long a fa­vour’d isle]
Now ov­er­whelmed with guilt and shame,
O migh­ty God, stretch out Thy hand,
The same Thy pow­er, Thy grace the same.

Let peace des­cend with bal­my wing,
And all its bless­ings round her shed;
Her li­ber­ties be well se­cured,
And com­merce lift its faint­ing head.

Let fear­some can­nons cease to roar,
The war­like trump no long­er sound;
The din of arms be heard no more,
Nor hu­man blood pol­lute the ground.

Let hos­tile troops drop from their hands
The use­less sword, the glitt­er­ing spear;
And join in friend­ship’s sac­red bands,
Nor one dis­cord­ant voice be there.

Thus save, O Lord, our sink­ing land;
A mil­lion tongues shall then adore,
Resound the hon­ors of Thy name,
And spread Thy praise from shore to shore.