When o’er the bil­low-heav­ing deep,
The fa­thers of our race,
The pre­cepts of their God to keep,
Sought here their rest­ing-place—
That gra­cious God their path pre­pared,
Preserved from ev­ery harm,
And still for their pro­tect­ion bared
His ev­er­last­ing arm.

His breath, in­spir­ing ev­ery gale,
Impels them o’er the main;
His guard­ian an­gels spread the sail,
And tem­pests howl in vain.
For them old ocean’s rocks are smoothed;
December’s face grows mild;
To ver­nal airs her blasts are soothed,
And all their rage be­guiled.

When Fa­mine rolls her hag­gard eyes,
His ever-boun­te­ous hand
Abundance from the sea sup­plies,
And trea­sures from the sand.
Nor yet His ten­der mer­cies cease;
His ov­er­rul­ing plan
Inclines to gen­tle­ness and peace
The heart of sa­vage man.

And can our sto­ny bo­soms be
To all these won­ders blind?
Nor swell with thank­ful­ness to Thee,
O Parent of man­kind?
All-gra­cious God, in­flame our zeal;
Dispense one bless­ing more;
Grant us Thy bound­less love to feel,
Thy good­ness to ad­ore.