Lord, Thou wilt not avenge our wrong
Nor chase the ills that round us throng;
Thou knowest, we are flesh and bone,
We are not statues made from stone!
We are not made of grass or reeds,
That Thou consumest us like weeds;—
As though we were some thorny field
Or brushwood, that the forests yield.
If that ourselves are nothing worth—
If we have wrought no good on earth,