O Thou, to whom all prayer must rise,
Wilt Thou now lend Thy gracious?
While feeble mortals raise their cry,
Wilt Thou, the great Jehovah, hear?
Thy servants would deny Thee rest,
Till Zion's mouldering walls Thou raise,
Till Thine own power shall stand confessed,
And make Jerusalem a praise.
Look down, O God, with pitying eye,
And view the desolation round;
See what wide realms in darkness lie,
And hurl their idols to the ground,
With gentle beams on Zion shine,
Raise up her kings, restore her priests,
And, by Thine energy divine,
Let sacred love overflow their feasts.
Then shall each age and rank agree
United shouts of joy to raise:
And Zion, made a praise by Thee,
To Thee shall render back the praise.