Thy mercy heard my infant prayer,

Thy love, with all a mother’s care,

Sustained my childish days;

Thy goodness watched my ripening youth,

And formed my heart to love thy truth,

And filled my lips with praise.

2 Then e’en in age and grief, thy name

Shall still my languid heart inflame,

And bow my faltering knee:

O! yet this bosom feels the fire,

This trembling hand and drooping lyre

Have yet a strain for thee!

3 Yes! broken, tuneless, still, O Lord,

This voice transported shall record

Thy goodness, tried so long;

Till, sinking slow, with calm decay,

Its feeble murmurs melt away

Into a seraph’s song.