Not in anger smite us, Lord,
Spare Thy people, spare!
If Thou mete us due reward
We must all despair.
Let the flood
Of Jesus' blood
Quench the flaming of Thy wrath,
That our sin enkindled hath.
Father! Thou hast patience long
With the sick and weak;
Heal us, make us brave and strong,
Words of comfort speak.
Touch my soul,
And make me whole
With Thy healing precious balm;
Ward off all would bring me harm.
Weary am I, Lord, and worn
With my ceaseless pain;
Sad the heart that night and morn
Sighs for help in vain.
Wilt Thou yet
My soul forget,
Waiting anxiously for Thee
In the cave of misery?
Hence, ye foes! God hears my prayer
From His holy place;
Once again with hope I dare
Come before His face.
Hell touch not me;
God hath given me power o'er all,
Who once mocked and sought my fall.
Source: Lyra Germanica: The Christian Year #23
|Instances (1 - 2 of 2)||Title||First Line||Tune||Tune Key||Author||Meter||Scripture||Date||Subject||Source|
|Lyra Germanica: hymns for the Sundays and chief festivals of the Christian year #55||Not in anger smite us, Lord||Not in anger smite us, Lord||Albinus||1856|
|Lyra Germanica: The Christian Year #23||Not in anger smite us, Lord||Not in anger smite us, Lord||Catherine Winkworth; Albinus||7,5,7,5,3,4,7,7||1861|