"Thy mercies are new every morning and fresh every moment"

Oh Thou, who bounteous to their need,Dost all earth's thronging pilgrims feed,Dost bid for them in every clime,The pregnant harvest know its time,The flocks in verdant pastures dwell,The corn aspire, the olive swell,Fain would we bless that sleepless EyeThat doth our hourly wants descry.—Thou pour'st us from the nested grove,The minstrel-melody of love,Thou giv'st us of the fruitage fairThat summer's ardent suns prepare,Of honey from the rock that flows,And of the perfume of the rose,And of the breeze, whose balm repairsThe sickening waste of toils and cares.—And tho', perchance, the ingrate kneeBends not in praise, or prayer to thee,Tho' Sin that stole with traitor-swayEven Peter's loyalty away,May strongly weave its seven-fold snare,And bring dejection and despair;Yet not the morn with cheering eyeMore duly lights the expecting sky,Nor surer speeds on pinion lightEach measur'd moment's trackless flight,Than comes thy mercy's kind embraceTo feeble man's forgetful race.