Dublin Core




Oh, holy Father! just and true,

Are all thy works, and words, and ways,

And unto Thee alone are due

Thanksgiving and eternal praise!

As children of thy gracious care,

We veil the eye - we bend the knee,

With broken words of praise and prayer,

Father and God, we come to thee!

For thou hast heard, O God of right,

The sighing of the Island slave:

And stretched for him the arm of might,

Nor shortened that it could not save.

The laborer sits beneath his vine -

The shackled soul and hand are free;

Thanksgiving! for the work is thine -

Praise! for the blessing is of thee.

And O, we feel thy Presence here;

Thy awful arm in judgment bare!

Thine eye hath seen the bondman's tear -

Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer.

Praise! for the pride of may is low,

The counsels of the wise are nought;

The fountains for repentance flow -

What hath our God in mercy wrought?

Speed on thy work, Lord God of Hosts? -

And, when the bondman's chain is riven,

And swells from all our guilty coasts,

The anthem of the free to Heaven, -

Oh, not to those, whom Thou hast led,

As with Thy could and fire before,

But, unto THEE, in fear and dread,

Be praise and glory evermore!

August 1st, 1837


J.J. Whittier


1:31, p. 3




Sung at the third anniversary of the West India Emancipation, in the Broadway Tabernacle, New York, August 1st, 1837


J.J. Whittier, “Hymn,” Periodical Poets, accessed April 14, 2024, https://periodicalpoets.com/items/show/222.


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