The thoughtless brute his master knows
And loves the hand that gives him food;
But Me, from whom their being flows,
Sole author of their total good,
The Lord, and friend of all mankind,
My people have not sense to find.

Duller than beasts the human herd,
Though fed with blessings from above,
My people pay Me no regard,
Nor own My providential love,
Nor for their kind preserver care
In whom they live, and move, and are.