The pity of the Lord, To those that fear His name, Is such as tender parents feel; He knows our feeble frame. He knows we are but dust, Scattered with ev'ry breath; His anger like a rising wind, Can send us swift to death. Our days are as the grass, Or like the morning flow'r; If one sharp blast sweep o'er the field, It withers in an hour. But Thy compassions, Lord, To endless years endure; And children's children ever find, Thy words of promise sure.