My hands quake with fevered chill
but sure is Your Hand by which I stand.
Lord, keep my shaking breast still
like Your mighty mountain spans.
You, oh Lord, have raised them sure
and shored them to endure,
and so shall I by each sigh
You breathe be raised to life.
Each whisper, each whistling breeze,
proclaims Your nearness to me
and grants me to stand in freedom
as from unknown illness my soul frees.
And all the world will establish their eyes
on the heavens and praise You
one with me in holy view
for You have heard Your people’s cries.