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