1 All you, who in his sacred courts attend,
With humble awe who 'fore his altars bend,
Sing, sing the praises of the mighty God,
And publish his tremendous acts abroad.
2 Yes; praise his mercy in sublimest strains;
O'er the wide universe supreme he reigns;
What nobler subject can the soul employ?
What fill the heart with more exalted joy?
4 'Bove all the various nations that possess
This spacious globe, his Israel does he bless;
Our happy tribes have long his goodness known;
Our tribes he made peculiarly his own.
5 Say, hath he not omnipotence display'd?
Can all the gods that human pride has made,
That impious nations stupidly adore,
With him compare in majesty and pow'r?
6 Awful he wills lo! heav'ns and seas and lands
Obey submissive his supreme commands;
His dread behest the deep obedient hears;
The dark abyss her maker's voice reveres.
7 He bids the vapours from the earth arise,
And fills with genial rain the azure skies;
His forky lightnings on the rain attend,
And, rapid, in vast meets of flame descend;
The winds are his; his mandate when they hear,
They burst their prison-doors, and sweep the air.
8 Thou, faithless Egypt, thou his wonders saw;
He struck thy Pharaoh's harden'd heart with awe;
Trembled thy chiefs when they at dawn beheld
Their noblest herds and flocks bestrew the field;
And with what killing anguish did they sigh
To see their best-belov'd, their first-born die?
10 Great nations by his arm did he subdue;
He mighty kings with all their armies slew;
11 Enormous Og, proud Bashans plains who sway'd,
Dread Sihon, whom the Amorites obey'd;
The haughty princes that in Canaan reign'd,
And o'er her fertile plains sweet rule maintain'd:
12 Their lands to Israel's faithful race he gave;
Their lands new masters and new laws receive;
For ever ours, while we with holy fear
The sacred dictates of his will revere.
13 O mighty God, how glorious is thy name?
Eternal ages shall thy pow'r proclaim;
14 Just art thou, Lord the humbled proud shall own,
Th' exalted poor, that truth supports thy throne.
15 With thee compar'd, the heathen gods how vain?
What bright, what glorious deities they feign?
Poor imag'd nothings, form'd of mining clay,
To whom their stupid vot'ries fruitless pray!
16 Mouths, true! they have, yet have they not a voice;
Have eyes, yet cannot in the light rejoice;
17 Their nostrils no rich fragrant odours taste,
Nor with the pow'rs of speech their tongues are blest;
18 Bright objects of devotion's holy flame!
And wise are they, such deities who frame!
And wiser still, beyond description wise,
The man, who on the god he makes, relies!
19 Ye happy tribes, from faithful Abr'ham sprung,
Ye priests, that to his hallow'd dome belong,
And also all, who, struck with pious fear,
With duteous hearts the sov'reign Lord revere,
21 Praise him, the God, on Sion's sacred hill,
In Salem's temple, who delights to dwell.