Dear Lord! Behold Our Sore Distress

Dear Lord! be­hold our sore dis­tress;

Our sins at­tempt to reign;

Stretch out Thine arm of con­quer­ing grace

And let Thy foes be slain.

The li­on with his dread­ful roar

Affrights Thy fee­ble sheep:

Reveal the glo­ry of Thy pow­er

And chain him to the deep.

Must we in­dulge a long des­pair?

Shall our pe­ti­tions die?

Our mourn­ings nev­er reach Thine ear

Nor tears af­fect Thine eye?

If Thou des­pise a mor­tal groan

Yet hear a Sav­ior’s blood;

An ad­vo­cate so near the throne

Pleads and pre­vails with God.

He brought the Spir­it’s pow­er­ful sword

To slay our dead­ly foes;

Our sins shall die be­neath Thy Word

And hell in vain op­pose.

How bound­less is our Fa­ther’s grace

In height

and depth

and length!

He makes his Son our right­eous­ness

His Spir­it is our strength.