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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 strokes are felt,
His strokes are fewer than our crimes,
And lighter than our guilt.
3 High as the heavens are rais'd
Above the ground we tread,
So far the riches of his grace
Our highest thoughts exceed.
4 His power 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 that fear his name,
Is such as tender parents feel;
He knows our feeble frame.
6 He knows we are but dust,
Scatter'd with every breath:
His anger like a rising wind
Can send us swift to death.
7 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.
8 But thy compassions, Lord,
To endless years endure;
And children's children ever find
Thy words of promise sure.
Text Information | |
---|---|
First Line: | My soul, repeat his praise |
Title: | Abounding Compassion of God; or, Mercy in the midst of Judgement |
Meter: | Short Metre |
Language: | English |
Publication Date: | 1787 |
Scripture: | |
Topic: | Afflictions: gentle; Angels: praise the Lord; Compassion of God(6 more...) |
Notes: | Second Part |