My Soul, Repeat His Praise

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 our guilt re­move.

The pi­ty of the Lord

To those that fear His name

Is such as ten­der par­ents feel;

He knows our fee­ble frame.

He knows we are but dust

Scattered with ev­ery breath;

His an­ger like a ris­ing wind

Can send us swift to death.

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;

And child­ren’s child­ren ev­er find

Thy words of pro­mise sure.