1 My soul, repeat His praise
Whose mercies are so great;
Whose anger is so slow to rise,
So ready to abate.
2 God will not always chide;
And, when His wrath is felt,
His strokes are fewer than or crimes,
And lighter than our guilt.
3 High as the heavens are raised
Above the ground we tread,
So far the riches of His grace
Our highest thoughts exceed.
4 His grace subdues our sins,
And His forgiving love
Far as the east is from the west
Doth all our guilt remove.
5 The pity of the Lord,
To those who fear His name,
Is such as tender parents feel;
He knows our feeble frame.
6 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.
7 But thy great compassions, Lord,
To endless years endure;
And children's children ever find
Thy words of promise sure.
Text Information | |
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First Line: | My soul, repeat His praise |
Meter: | S. M. |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1870 |
Topic: | Public Worship: Praise and Adoration; God: Benefactor; God: long-suffering(8 more...) |
Notes: | Now Public Domain. Author from index: Watts |