My soul, repeat his praise

Whose mercies are so great;

Whose anger is so slow to rise,

So ready to abate.

2 High as the heavens are raised

Above the ground we tread,

So far the riches of his grace

Our highest thoughts exceed.

3 His power subdues our sins,

And his forgiving love,

Far as the east is from the west,

Doth all our guilt remove.

4 The pity of the Lord,

To those that fear his name,

Is such as tender parents feel:

He knows our feeble frame.

5 Our days are as the grass,

Or like the morning flower:

If one sharp blast sweeps o’er the field,

It withers in an hour.

6 But thy compassions, Lord,

To endless years endure;

And children’s children ever find

Thy words of promise sure.