103 (1) | Psalm 103 Version 1 | SM | |
MY soul, repeat His praise, Whose mercies are so great; Whose anger is so slow to rise, So ready to abate. |
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2 | God will not always chide, And when His strokes are felt, His strokes are fewer than our crimes, And lighter than our guilt. |
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3 | High as the heavens are raised Above the ground we tread, So far the riches of His grace Our highest thoughts exceed. |
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4 | His power subdues our sins; And His forgiving love, Far as the east is from the west, Doth all our guilt remove. |
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5 | The pity of the Lord, To those that fear His name, Is such as tender parents feel; He knows our feeble frame. |
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6 | Our days are as the grass, Or like the morning flower; If one sharp blast sweep o’er the field, It withers in an hour. |
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Isaac Watts, 1674-1748 |