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 heavens are raised Above the ground we tread, So far the riches of His grace Our highest thoughts exceed. His power subdues our sins; And His forgiving love, Far as the east is from the west, Doth all our guilt remove. Isaac Watts
Copied from my grandmother’s hymnal, Hymn Book, Methodist Episcopal Church, South: Nashville, TN, 1901, Hymn #9.
Note: The hymns in this hymnal are not titled. So when I do not know the hymn, I make up a title or simply use the first line.
Photo taken in Milton, FL, 2021