XLVII. GOD furnishing a Table in the Wilderness.

PARENT of universal Good!
We own thy bounteous Hand,
Which does so rich a Table spread,
Ev'n in this desart Land.

Struck by thy Pow'r the flinty Rocks
In gushing Torrents flow;
The feather'd Wand'rers of the Air
Thy guiding Instinct know.

The pregnant Clouds at thy Command
Rain down delicious Bread;
And by light Drops of pearly Dew
Are num'rous Armies fed.

Supported thus, thine Israel march'd
The promis'd Land to gain:
And shall thy Children now begin
To seek their GOD in vain?

Are all thy Stores exhausted now?
Or does thy Mercy fail?
That Faith should languish in our Breasts
And anxious Cares prevail?

Ye base unworthy Fears, be gone,
And wide disperse in Air;
Then may I feel my Father's Rod,
When I suspect his Care.