1 Lord, in this dark, this awful hour,
When nations tremble at Thy power,
We see, we own Thy lifted hand,
Extended o’er our native land.

2 We justly fear Thy wrath should rise,
For oh, our guilt has pierced the skies!
The strength of kingdoms Thou hast broke:
Let not our land feel the stroke.

3 At the loud trumpet’s martial blast,
Ruin has laid creation waste;
And man against his brother steeled,
Strews victims o’er th’empurpled field.

4 While war exhausts the vital flood,
And stains the earth with human blood;
The moon looks down upon the scene,
With placid orb, and ray serene!

5 O bid these vile contentions cease,
And bless the jarring world with peace;
Let earth partake the sweet repose,
That every planet round her knows.

6 Thy hand alone can wrath control,
And soothe to rest the angry soul;
Return, return, O God of love,
And war with all its curse remove.