PSALM LXV.

George Burgess

All souls to thee shall throng,
Who hear'st the suppliant's call;
And though our thousand sins be strong,
Yet thou canst cleanse from all.

Oh, happy, chosen guests,
To thy bright mansion led!
There, in thy love their spirit rests,
And shares thy heav'nly bread.

Dread wonders tell thy hand,
O thou most strong to save!
Thou hope of earth's remotest strand,
And isles that strew the wave.

Thou, girt with pow'r around,
Hast fix'd the mountains fast;
Thou still'st the seas' wild, raving sound,
The billows and the blast.

Thou still'st the billows' roar,
The warring realms' alarm:
The dwellers on each distant shore
Behold and fear thine arm.

Of thee the morning's beams.
The evening shadows sing:
And earth is rich with show'ring streams
From God's exhaustless spring.

Then, when the furrows yield
Beneath thy trickling rain,
When gentle tides have smoothed the field,
Thou giv'st the golden grain.

Thy blessing opes the year,
Thy goodness crowns its close;
And where thy rolling wheels appear,
The dew of plenty flows.

It flows on barren rocks,
And waving vales rejoice;
And mountains, white with snowy flocks,
Lift high their happy voice.