My soul, repeat His praise,

Whose mercies are so great;

Whose anger is so slow to rise,

So ready to abate

God will not always chide;

And when His strokes are felt,

His strokes are fewer than our crimes,

And lighter than our guilt

High as the heav’ns are raised,

Above the ground we tread,

So far the riches of His grace

Our highest thoughts exceed

His power subdues our sins;

And His forgiving love

Far as the east is from the west,

Doth all out guilt remove

The pity of the Lord,

To those that fear His name,

Is such as tender parents feel;

He knows our feeble frame.

Our days as are the grass,

Or like the morning flower;

If one sharp blast sweep o’er the field

It withers in an hour

But Thy compassions, Lord,

To endless years endure;

An children’s children ever find

Thy words of promise sure