When dreadful o’er a mourning land,
In anger God extends His hand;
Shut are the cisterns of the sky,
And earth’s unnumbered springs are dry.
The blighted corn expects in vain,
The early and the latter rain;
Nor morn, nor evening dew, distils,
To satisfy the thirsty hills.
No grass, no herb, adorns the ground,
No blossom on the tree is found;
No olive yields its cheering oil,
Nor fruit rewards
the tiller’s toil.
Creation droops on every hand,
When famine desolates the land;
And panting in the toils of death,
The languid herds resign their breath.
Yet should the spring withhold her showers,
Nor autumn yield her wonted stores,
Should wintry tempests, loud and high,
Rush on the summer’s smiling sky:
My soul, in this tremendous hour,
Great God, would still adore Thy power;
With trembling voice the anthem raise,
And speak in dying strains Thy praise!