To God Most Awful and Most High

To God most aw­ful and most high

Who formed the earth

the sea

the sky;

To Him on whom all worlds de­pend

Our hum­bled hearts in sighs we send.

Will He who hears the rav­ens cry

Reject our pray­ers

and bid us die?

Will He re­fuse His keep to yield

Who clothes the li­lies of the field?

Pale fa­mine lifts at His co­mmand

Her wi­ther­ing arm

and blasts the land;

The har­vests per­ish at her breath

Her train are want

dis­ease

and death.

But when He smiles

the de­sert blooms

New life is born among the tombs;

O’er the glad plains abun­dance teems

And plen­ty rolls in boun­te­ous streams.

Father of grace whom we ad­ore

Bless Thy large fa­mi­ly—the poor;

The poor on Thee alone de­pend

Continue Thou the poor man’s friend.

Content to live by toil and pain

May we eter­nal rich­es gain;

Meanwhile

by Thy free good­ness fed

Give us this day our dai­ly bread.