Is this the kind re­turn,
And these the thanks we owe,
Thus to abuse eter­nal love,
Whence all our bless­ings flow?

To what a stub­born frame
Has sin re­duced our mind!
What strange rebel­li­ous wretch­es we,
And God as strange­ly kind!

On us He bids the sun
Shed his re­viv­ing rays;
For us the skies their cir­cles run,
To length­en out our days.

The brutes ob­ey their God,
And bow their necks to men;
But we, more base, more brut­ish things,
Reject His ea­sy reign.

Turn, turn us, migh­ty God,
And mold our souls afresh;
Break, so­ve­reign grace, these hearts of stone,
And give us hearts of flesh.

Let old in­gra­ti­tude
Provoke our weep­ing eyes,
And hour­ly as new mer­cies fall
Let hour­ly thanks arise.