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

He knows we are but dust,
Scattered with ev’ry breath;
His anger like a rising wind,
Can send us swift to death.

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.

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

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