Father of all, by whom we are,
For whom was made whatever is;

For Parents

Father of all, by whom we are,
For whom was made whatever is;
Who hast entrusted to our care
A candidate for glorious bliss:

Poor worms of earth, for help we cry,
For grace to guide what grace has given;
We ask for wisdom from on high,
To train our infant up for heaven.

We tremble at the danger near,
And crowds of wretched parents see,
Who, blindly fond, their children rear
In tempers far as hell from thee:

Themselves the slaves of sense and praise,
Their babes who pamper and admire,
And make the helpless infants pass
To murderer-Moloch through the fire.

Rather this hour resume his breath,
From selfishness and pride to save;
By death prevent the second death,
And hide him in the silent grave!

Or, if thou grant a longer date,
With resolute wisdom us endue,
To point him out his lost estate,
His dire apostasy to show:

To time our every smile or frown,
To mark the bounds of good and ill;
And beat the pride of nature down,
And subjugate his rising will.

Him let us tend, severely kind,
As guardians of his giddy youth;
As set to form his tender mind,
By principles of virtuous truth:

To fit his soul for heavenly grace,
Discharge the Christian parents' part,
And keep him, till thy love takes place,
And Jesus rises in his heart.