Lord, how shall wretch­ed sin­ners dare
Look up to Thy divine ab­ode?
Or of­fer their im­perfect pray­er
Before a just, a ho­ly God?

Bright ter­rors guard Thy aw­ful seat,
And dazz­ling glor­ies veil Thy face!
Yet mer­cy calls us to Thy feet,
Thy throne is still a throne of grace.

O may our souls Thy grace ad­ore,
May Je­sus plead our hum­ble claim;
While Thy pro­tect­ion we im­plore,
In His pre­vail­ing, glor­ious name.

With all the boast­ed pomp of war
In vain we dare the hos­tile field:
In vain, un­less the Lord be there;
Thy arm alone, our na­tion’s shield.

Let past ex­per­ience of Thy care
Support our hope, our trust in­vite!
Again at­tend our hum­ble pray­er,
Again be Thy mer­cy Thy de­light!

Our arms suc­ceed, our coun­cils guide,
Let Thy right hand our cause main­tain;
’Till war’s de­struct­ive rage sub­side,
And peace resume her gen­tle reign.

O when shall time the per­iod bring
When rag­ing war shall waste no more;
When peace shall stretch her bal­my wing
From coast to coast, and shore to shore?

When shall the Gospel’s healing ray
(Kind source of am­ity divine!)
Spread o’er the world ce­les­tial day?
When shall the na­tions, Lord, be Thine?