8,8,8,8

Grace and Providence.

Almighty King! whose wondrous hand,

Supports the weight of sea and land;

Whose grace is such a boundless store,

No heart shall break that sighs for more.

Thy Providence supplies my food,

And 'tis thy blessing makes it good;

My soul is nourished by thy word,

Let soul and body praise the Lord.

My streams of outward comfort came

From him, who built this earthly frame;

Whate'er I want his bounty gives,

By whom my soul for ever lives.

Either his hand preserves from pain,

Or, if I feel it, heals again;

From Satan's malice shields my breast,

Or overrules it for the best.

Forgive the song that falls so low

Beneath the gratitude I owe!

It means thy praise, however poor,

An angel's song can do no more.