When Dreadful o’er a Mourning Land

When dread­ful o’er a mourn­ing land

In an­ger God ex­tends His hand;

Shut are the cis­terns of the sky

And earth’s un­num­bered springs are dry.

The blight­ed corn ex­pects in vain

The ear­ly and the lat­ter rain;

Nor morn

nor ev­en­ing dew

distils

To sa­tis­fy the thirs­ty hills.

No grass

no herb

ad­orns the ground

No blos­som on the tree is found;

No ol­ive yields its cheer­ing oil

Nor fruit re­wards the till­er’s toil.

Creation droops on ev­ery hand

When fa­mine de­so­lates the land;

And pant­ing in the toils of death

The lang­uid herds re­sign their breath.

Yet should the spring with­hold her show­ers

Nor au­tumn yield her wont­ed stores

Should win­try tem­pests

loud and high

Rush on the sum­mer’s smil­ing sky:

My soul

in this tre­men­dous hour

Great God

would still adore Thy pow­er;

With trem­bling voice the anthem raise

And speak in dy­ing strains Thy praise!