Divine Compassion. Ps. 103. 8-12; Isa. 43. 25
I. Watts S.M.
1
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,
Does all our guilt remove.
