Old-Line Primitive Baptist Hymn and Tune Book

Hymn #766: My Soul, Repeat His Praise

Hymn #765 Hymn #767


Image of tune Saint Thomas (may not be posted yet)

766 (S.M.) Isaac Watts

My soul, repeat His praise,

Whose mercies are so great,

Whose anger is so slow to rise,

So ready to abate.

God will not always chide;

And when His strokes are felt,

His strokes are fewer than our crimes,

And lighter than our guilt.

High as the heav'ns are raised

Above the ground we tread,

So far the riches of His grace

Our highest thoughts exceed.

His pow'r subdues our sins,

And His forgiving love

Far as the east is from the west

Doth all our guilt remove.

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.

Hymn #765 Hymn #767