Some humble suppliant on his knees;
There’s not a breeze that murmurs by
But wafts some faithful prayer on high;
There’s not a woe afflicts our race
But someone bears to the Throne of Grace;
And for every temptation our souls may meet
We ask for grace at the Mercy Seat.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The beams smile on, and heaven serene
Still bends, as though no prayers had been;