Hymn For The Twenty-Second Of December

John Quincy Adams

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When o'er the billow-heaving deep,
The fathers of our race,
The precepts of their God to keep,
Sought here their resting-place
That gracious God their path prepared,
Preserved from every harm,
And still for their protection bared His everlasting arm.
His breath, inspiring every gale,
Impels them o'er the main;
His guardian angels spread the sail,
And tempests howl in vain.
For them old ocean's rocks are smoothed;
December's face grows mild;
To vernal airs her blasts are soothed,
And all their rage beguiled.
When Famine rolls her haggard eyes,
His ever-bounteous hand
Abundance from the sea supplies,
And treasures from the sand.
Nor yet his tender mercies cease;
His overruling plan
'Inclines to gentleness and peace
The heart of savage man.
And can our stony bosoms be
To all these wonders blind?
Nor swell with thankfulness to thee,
O Parent of mankind?
All-gracious God, inflame our zeal;
Dispense one blessing more;
Grant us thy boundless love to feel,
Thy goodness to adore.

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