1 The Lord! how tender is His love,
His justice how august;
Hence all her fears my soul derives,
There anchors all her trust.
He showers the manna from above,
To feed the barren waste;
Or points with death the fiery hail,
And famine waits the blast.

2 Crowns, realms, and worlds, His wrath incensed,
Are dust beneath His tread:
He blights the fair, unplumes the proud,
And shakes the learnèd head.
He bids distress forget to groan,
The sick from anguish cease,
In dungeons spreads His healing wing,
And softly whispers peace.

3 His vengeance rides the rushing wind,
Or tips the bolt with flame;
His goodness breathes in every breeze,
And warms in every beam.
Lord! grant that still with grateful heart
My years resigned may run;
’Tis Thine to give, or to resume,
And may Thy will be done!