C. M.

The vanity of man and condescension of God.

Lord, what is man, poor feeble man,

Born of the earth at first?

His life a shadow, light and vain,

Still hasting to the dust.

O what is feeble, dying man,

Or any of his race,

That God should make it his concern

To visit him with grace?

That God who darts his lightnings down,

Who shakes the worlds above,

And mountains tremble at his frown,

How wondrous is his love!