O Thou, the help­less or­phan’s hope
To whom alone my eyes look up
In each dis­tress­ing day!
Father (for that’s the sweet­est name
That e’er these lips were taught to frame),
Instruct this heart to pray.

Low in the dust my par­ents lie,
And no at­tent­ive ear is nigh
But Thine, to mark my woe;
No hand to wipe away my tears,
No gen­tle voice to hush my fears,
Remains to me be­low.

To Heav’n my earth­ly friends are gone,
And thi­ther are my com­forts flown,
But I con­tin­ue here;
Be Thou my pat­tern, Thou my guide;
This friend­less heart from sor­row hide,
Reposing on Thy care.