1 When dreadful o’er a mourning land,
In anger God extends His hand;
Shut are the cisterns of the sky,
And earth’s unnumbered springs are dry.

2 The blighted corn expects in vain,
The early and the latter rain;
Nor morn, nor evening dew, distils,
To satisfy the thirsty hills.

3 No grass, no herb, adorns the ground,
No blossom on the tree is found;
No olive yields its cheering oil,
Nor fruit rewards the tiller’s toil.

4 Creation droops on every hand,
When famine desolates the land;
And panting in the toils of death,
The languid herds resign their breath.

5 Yet should the spring withhold her showers,
Nor autumn yield her wonted stores,
Should wintry tempests, loud and high,
Rush on the summer’s smiling sky:

6 My soul, in this tremendous hour,
Great God, would still adore Thy power;
With trembling voice the anthem raise,
And speak in dying strains Thy praise!