My soul, repeat his praise,

Whose mercies are so great,

Whose anger is so slow to rise,

So ready to abate.

God will not always chide;

And when his strokes are felt,

His strokes are fewer than our crimes,

And lighter than our guilt.

High as the heav'ns are raised

Above the ground we tread,

So far the riches of his grace

Our highest thoughts exceed.

His power subdues our sins,

And his forgiving love

Far as the east is from the west

Doth all our guilt remove.

The pity of the Lord,

To those that fear his name,

Is such as tender parents feel;

He knows our feeble frame.

He knows we are but dust,

Scattered with every breath;

His anger, like a rising wind,

Can send us swift to death.

Our days are as the grass,

Or like the morning flower;

If one sharp blast sweep o'er the field

It withers in an hour.

But thy compassions, Lord,

To endless years endure;

And children's children ever find

Thy words of promise sure.