1015    S.M.     Isaac Watts
Divine Compassion. Ps. 103. 8-12; Isa. 43. 25

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.