How hast thou, Lord, from year to year, Our land with plenty crowned! And generous fruit and golden grain Have spread their riches round. But we thy mercies have abused, To more abounding crimes; What heights, what daring heights in sin, Mark and disgrace our times! Equal, though awful is the doom That fierce descending rain Should into inundations swell, And crush the rising grain. How just that, in the autumn's reign, When we had hoped to reap, Our fields of sorrow and despair Should lie a hideous heap! But, Lord, have mercy on our land, Those floods of vengeance stay; Dispel these glooms, and let the sun Shine in unclouded day. To thee alone we look for help; None else of dew and rain Can give the world the smallest drop, Or smallest drop restrain.
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