1 Ye Priests of God, whose happy Days
Are spent in your Creator's Praise,
Still more and more his Fame express1
Ye pious Worshippers proclaim
With shouts of Joy his holy Name;
Nor satisfied with praising, bless.

2 Let God's high Praises still resound,
Beyond old Times too scanty bound
And thro' eternal Ages pierce,
From where the Sun first gilds the Streams
To where he sets with purpled Beams,
Thro' all the wide stretch'd Universe.

3 The various Tribes of Earth obey
Thy awful and imperial Say;
Nor Earth thy sovereign Power confines;
Above the Sun's all-chearing Light
Above the Stars and far more bright
Thy pure essential Glory shines.

4 What mortal form'd of fading clay,
What Native of eternal Day
Can with the God of Heaven compare?
Yet Angels round thy glorious Throne
Thou stoop'st to view; nor they alone;
Even Earth-born Men thy Goodness share.

5 The Poor thou liftest from the Dust;
The Sinner, if in thee he trust,
From depths of guilt and shame thou'lt raise,
That he in Peace and Safety plac'd
With Power and Love and Wisdom grac'd
May sing aloud his Saviour's Praise.

6 To Father, Son, and Holy-Ghost
The God whom Heaven's triumphant Host
And suffering Saints on Earth adore,
Be Glory as in Ages past,
As now it is and so shall last
When Earth and Heaven shall be no more.