Dear Lord, Thy word of truth af­fords
A balm for ev­ery wound;
Hence all our hopes of bliss arise,
And here our peace is found.

The tree of life, be­neath whose shade
The wea­ry pil­grim sits;
And there re­gal­ing on its fruits,
With sweet re­fresh­ment meets.

The sure foun­da­tion of our faith,
And source of all our joy,
May it our warm­est thoughts en­gage,
Our in­most souls em­ploy.

But not on us alone be­stow,
These re­cords of Thy love,
Let dis­tant lands Thy truth re­ceive,
And all its bless­ings prove.