From the re­cess­es of a low­ly spir­it,
Our hum­ble pray­er as­cends; O Fa­ther! hear it,
Upsoaring on the wings of awe and meek­ness;
Forgive its weak­ness!

I know, I feel, how mean and how un­wor­thy
The trem­bling sac­ri­fice I pour be­fore Thee;
What can I of­fer in Thy pre­sence ho­ly,
But sin and fol­ly?

For in Thy sight—who ev­ery bosom view­est,
Cold are our warm­est vows, and vain our tru­est;
Thoughts of a hur­ry­ing hour; our lips r­epeat them,
Our hearts for­get them.

We see Thy hand—it leads us, it sup­ports us:
We hear Thy voice—it coun­sels and it courts us:
And then we turn away—and still Thy kind­ness
Pardons our blind­ness.

And still Thy rain des­cends, Thy sun is glow­ing,
Fruits rip­en round, flow­ers are be­neath us blow­ing
And, as if man were some de­serv­ing crea­ture,
Joys cov­er na­ture.

O how long-suf­fer­ing, Lord! but Thou de­light­est
To win with love the wan­der­ing—Thou in­vit­est,
By smiles of mer­cy—not by frowns or ter­rors,
Man from his er­rors.

Father and Sav­ior! plant with­in that bo­som
The seeds of ho­li­ness—and bid them blos­som
In frag­rance and in beau­ty bright and ver­nal,
And spring eter­nal.

Then place them in Thine ev­er­last­ing gar­dens,
Where an­gels walk, and ser­aphs are the war­dens;
Where ev­ery flow­er that creeps
Thro’ death’s dark por­tal,
Becomes im­mor­tal.