When we are raised from deep dis­tress,
Our God de­serves a song;
We take the pat­tern of our praise
From He­ze­ki­ah’s tongue.

The gates of the de­vour­ing grave
Are op­ened wide in vain,
If He that holds the keys of death
Commands them fast again.

Pains of the flesh are wont t’ab­use
Our minds with slav­ish fears:
Our days are past, and we shall lose
The rem­nant of our years.

We chat­ter with a swal­low’s voice,
Or like a dove we mourn,
With bit­ter­ness in­stead of joys,
Afflicted and for­lorn.

Jehovah speaks the heal­ing word,
And no dis­ease with­stands;
See fe­vers, plagues ob­ey the Lord,
And fly at His com­mands.

If half the strings of life should break,
He can our frame re­store;
He casts our sins be­hind His back,
And they are found no more.