Leave to your Maker all the rest.
The hand which formed thee in the womb,
Guides from the cradle to the tomb.
Cotton.
Father, ’tis thine each day to yield
Thy children’s wants a fresh supply;
Thou cloth’st the lilies of the field,
And hearest the young ravens cry;
On thee we cast our care, we live
Through thee, who know’st our every need,