How hast Thou, Lord, from year to year,
Our land with plenty crowned!
And generous fruit and golden grain
Have spread their riches round.
But we Thy mercies have abused
To more abounding crimes;
What heights, what daring heights in sin
Disgrace and mark our times!
Equal, though awful, is the doom,
That fierce descending rain
Should into inundations swell,
And crush the rising grain!
How just, that in the autumn’s reign,
When we had hoped to reap,
Our fields of sorrow and despair
Should lie a hideous heap!
But Lord, have mercy on our land,
Those floods of vengeance stay:
Dispel these glooms, and let the sun
Shine in unclouded day!
To Thee alone we look for help;
None else of dew or rain
Can give the world the smallest drop
Or smallest drop restrain.