Great Maker of unnumbered worlds,
And whom unnumbered worlds adore—
Whose goodness all Thy creatures share,
While nature trembles at Thy power—
Thine is the hand that moves the spheres,
That wakes the wind, and lifts the sea;
And man, who moves the lord of earth,
Acts but the part assigned by Thee.
While suppliant crowds implore Thine aid,
To Thee we raise the humble cry;
Thine altar is the contrite heart,
Thine incense the repentant sigh.
O, may our land, in this her hour,
Confess Thy hand, and bless the rod,
By penitence make Thee her friend,
And find in Thee a guardian God.