Nature, with all her powers, shall sing,
God the Creator and the King;
Nor air, nor earth, nor skies, nor seas,
Deny the tribute of their praise.
[Begin to make his glories known,
Ye seraphs that sit near his throne;
Tune your harps high, and spread the sound
To the creation's utmost bound.
All mortal things of meaner frame,
Exert your force, and own his name;
Whilst with our souls and with our voice
We sing his honors and our joys.]
[To him be sacred all we have,
From the young cradle to the grave;
Our lips shall his loud wonders tell,
And every word a miracle.]
[This northern isle, our native land,
Lies safe in God th' Almighty's hand;
Our foes of victory dream in vain,
And wear the captivating chain.
He builds and guards the British throne,
And makes it gracious like his own;
Makes our successive princes kind,
And gives our dangers to the wind.]
Raise monumental praises high
To him that thunders through the sky,
And with an awful nod or frown
Shakes an aspiring tyrant down.
[Pillars of lasting brass proclaim
The triumphs of th' Eternal name;
While trembling nations read from far
The honors of the God of war.]
Thus let our flaming zeal employ
Our loftiest thoughts and loudest songs;
Britain, pronounce with warmest joy
Hosannah from ten thousand tongues.
Yet, mighty God! our feeble frame
Attempts in vain to reach thy name;
The strongest notes that angels raise,
Faint in the worship and the praise.