Lo, how the world afflicteth us
With wrongs and torments rancorous;
And Thou dost pardon every one,
But turnest from our woes alone.

Lord, Thou wilt not avenge our wrong
Nor chase the ills that round us throng;
Thou knowest, we are flesh and bone,
We are not statues made from stone!

We are not made of grass or reeds,
That Thou consumest us like weeds;--
As though we were some thorny field
Or brushwood, that the forests yield.

If that ourselves are nothing worth--
If we have wrought no good on earth,
If we are hateful in Thy sight
That Thou shouldst leave us in this plight--

Then blot us out;--be swift and brief,
That Thy pure heart may find relief;
This well may be, by Thy intent,
Great Lord and good, omnipotent.

How long must we in patience wait
And bear unmurmuringly our fate?
Let evil ones be swept away
And those whom Thou dost favour, stay!