7 My soul, repeat his praise,
Whose mercies are so great,
Whose anger is so slow to rise,
So ready to abate.

8 God will not always chide;
And when his strokes are felt,
His strokes are fewer than our crimes,
And lighter than our crimes.

9 High as the heav'ns are rais'd
Above the ground we tread,
So far the riches of his grace
Our highest thoughts exceed.

10 His pow'r subdues our sins,
And his forgiving love,
Far as the east is from the west,
Doth all our guilt remove.

11 The pity of the Lord
To those that fear his name,
Is such as tender parents feel;
He knows our feeble frame.

12 He knows we are but dust,
Scatter'd with ev'ry braeth:
His anger like a rising wind
Can send us swift to death.

13 Our days are as the grass,
Or like the morning flow'r!
If one sharp blast sweep o'er the field,
It withers in an hour.

14 But thy compassions, Lord,
To endless years endure;
And children's children ever find
Thy words of promise sure.