O tell of His might, and sing of His grace,
Whose robe is the light; whose canopy, space;
His chariots of wrath the deep thunder-clouds form,
And dark is His path on the wings of the storm!
Thy bountiful care, what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air, it shines in the light;
It streams from the hills, it descends to the plain,
And sweetly distils in the dew and the rain.
Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail;
In Thee do we trust, nor find Thee to fail;