The pity of the Lord

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 are like 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 word of promise sure.