Isaac Watts · 582 of 724

Hymn 74

Is this the kind return, And these the thanks we owe, Thus to abuse eternal love, Whence all our blessings flow?

To what a stubborn frame Has sin reduced our mind! What strange rebellious wretches we, And God as strangely kind!

[On us he bids the sun Shed his reviving rays; For us the skies their circles run, To lengthen out our days.

The brutes obey their God, And bow their necks to men; But we, more base, more brutish things, Reject his easy reign.]

Turn, turn us, mighty God, And mold our souls afresh; Break, sovereign grace, these hearts of stone, And give us hearts of flesh.

Let old ingratitude Provoke our weeping eyes, And hourly as new mercies fall Let hourly thanks arise.