Bid our feverish passions cease;
Calm us with thy promised peace.
2Wheresoe'er the brow of pain
Seeks oblivion's balm in vain,
Or the form of watchful grief
Knows not of the night's relief,
There thy pity, softening power,
There the spirit's calm restore;
Till each tongue, from murmuring free,
Wakes the hymn of praise to thee.