1 Our Father, thron'd above the sky,
To thee our empty hands we spread;
Thy children at thy footstool lie,
And ask thy blessings on their head.

2 With cheerful hope and filial fear,
In that august and precious name,
By thee ordain'd, we now draw near,
And would the promis'd blessing claim.

3 Does not an earthly parent hear
The cravings of his famish'd son?
Will he reject the filial pray'r,
Or mock him with a cake of stone?

4 Our heav'nly Father, how much more
Will thy divine compassions rise;
And open thy unbounded store,
To satisfy thy children's cries?

5 Yes, we will ask, and seek, and press
For gracious audience at thy seat;
Still hoping, waiting for success,
If persevering to entreat.

6 For Jesus in his faithful word
The upright supplicant has blest;
And all thy saints with one accord
The prevalence of pray'r attest.