1 My soul, repeat his praise Whose mercies are so great, Whose anger is so slow to rise, So ready to abate.
2 God will not always chide; And when his strokes are felt, His strokes are fewer than our crimes, And lighter than our guilt.
3 High as the heavens are rais'd Above the ground we tread, So far the riches of his grace Our highest thoughts exceed.
4 His power subdues our sins; And his forgiving love, Far as the east is from the west, Doth all our guilt remove.
5 The pity of the Lord To those that fear his Name, Is such as tender parents feel; He knows our feeble frame.
6 He knows we are but dust, Scatter'd with every breath; His anger, like a rising wind, Can send us swift to death.
7 Our days are as the grass, Or like the morning flower; If one sharp blast sweep o'er the field, It withers in an hour.
8 But thy compassions, Lord, To endless years endure; And children's children ever find Thy words of promise sure.