O Let the Land Mourn Through Its Coasts

O let the land mourn through its coasts

The king lay by his state;

And princ­es

rul­ers

at their posts

Awhile sit de­so­late.

Let priests and peo­ple

high and low

Rich

poor

and great

and small

Invoke

in fel­low­ship of woe

The Mak­er of them all.

For God hath sum­moned from His place

Death

in a dir­er form

To wak­en

warn

and scourge our race

Than earth­quake

fire

or storm.

Let church­es weep with­in their pale

And fa­mi­lies apart;

Let each in sec­re­cy be­wail

The plague of his own heart.

So

while the land be­moans its sin

The pes­ti­lence may cease

And mercy

tem­per­ing wrath

bring in

Not health alone

but peace—

The peace of God

which pass­eth thought

Keep ev­ery heart and mind

Till all

by this af­flict­ion taught

Be to His will re­signed.