When dread­ful o’er a mourn­ing land,
In an­ger God ex­tends His hand;
Shut are the cis­terns of the sky,
And earth’s un­num­bered springs are dry.

The blight­ed corn ex­pects in vain,
The ear­ly and the lat­ter rain;
Nor morn, nor ev­en­ing dew, distils,
To sa­tis­fy the thirs­ty hills.

No grass, no herb, ad­orns the ground,
No blos­som on the tree is found;
No ol­ive yields its cheer­ing oil,
Nor fruit re­wards the till­er’s toil.

Creation droops on ev­ery hand,
When fa­mine de­so­lates the land;
And pant­ing in the toils of death,
The lang­uid herds re­sign their breath.

Yet should the spring with­hold her show­ers,
Nor au­tumn yield her wont­ed stores,
Should win­try tem­pests, loud and high,
Rush on the sum­mer’s smil­ing sky:

My soul, in this tre­men­dous hour,
Great God, would still adore Thy pow­er;
With trem­bling voice the anthem raise,
And speak in dy­ing strains Thy praise!