1 O let the land mourn through its coasts,
The king lay by his state;
And princes, rulers, at their posts,
Awhile sit desolate.

2 Let priests and people, high and low,
Rich, poor, and great, and small,
Invoke, in fellowship of woe,
The Maker of them all.

3 For God hath summoned from His place
Death, in a direr form,
To waken, warn, and scourge our race,
Than earthquake, fire, or storm.

4 Let churches weep within their pale,
And families apart;
Let each in secrecy bewail
The plague of his own heart.

5 So, while the land bemoans its sin,
The pestilence may cease,
And mercy, tempering wrath, bring in
Not health alone, but peace—

6 The peace of God, which passeth thought,
Keep every heart and mind,
Till all, by this affliction taught,
Be to His will resigned.