The poisoned roots of pride and sin,
From them our misery proceeds,—
The heart produces thorns and weeds.
But, Lord, Thou bidst Thy sunbeams glow,
Thy gentle raindrops fall below;
When industry has dressed the bowers,
The earth produces fruits and flowers.
So when Thy love its radiance lends,
Thy Spirit like the dew descends,
When Faith, and Hope, and Peace are ours,