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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 heav'ns are rais'd
Above the ground we tread,
So far the riches of his grace
Our highest thoughts exceed.
4 His pow'r 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 flow'r;
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 Met. |
| Language: | English |
| Publication Date: | 1780 |
| Scripture: | |
| Notes: | Public Domain. |
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