To God most awful and most high,

Who form'd 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.