Great fram­er of un­num­bered worlds,
And whom un­numbered worlds adore!
Thy good­ness all Thy crea­tures share,
While na­ture trem­bles at Thy pow­er.

While sup­pli­ant crowds im­plore Thine aid,
To Thee we raise the hum­ble cry:
Thine al­tar is the con­trite heart,
Thine in­cense a re­pent­ant sigh.

But if in­jus­tice grind the poor,
Or ava­rice stain the sor­did hand,
Or stern am­bi­tion thirst for blood,
Or rude op­press­ion waste the land:

The God, who hears the or­phan’s cry,
The mar­tyr’s prayer, and pri­son­er’s groan,
Still list­en­ing to the poor op­pressed,
Would spurn th’op­press­or from his throne.

Yet though enor­mous crimes abound,
Should but a gen­ui­ne sor­row rise;
And, as new trou­bles threat­en round
’Midst wast­ing wars and an­gry skies.

Should, in her so­ber hour, our land
Confess Thy hand and bless the rod:
Thou still wouldst love to be her friend,
Who loved to own Thee as her God.