Lord, in this dark, this awful hour,
When nations tremble at Thy power,
We see, we own Thy lifted hand,
Extended o’er our native land.
We justly fear Thy wrath should rise,
For oh, our guilt has pierced the skies!
The strength of kingdoms Thou hast broke:
O spare our native land the stroke.
At the loud trumpet’s martial blast,
Ruin has laid creation waste;
And man against his brother steeled,
Strews victims o’er th’empurpled field.
While war exhausts the vital flood,
And stains the earth with human blood;
The moon looks down upon the scene,
With placid orb, and ray serene!
O bid these vile contentions cease,
And bless the jarring world with peace;
Let earth partake the sweet repose,
That every planet round her knows.
Thy hand alone can wrath control,
And soothe to rest the angry soul;
Return, return, O God of love,
And war with all its curse remove.