1 Not to ourselves, O God, we ask a name,
Nor want to glitter in the lists of fame;
To our own honour we'd no trophies raise;
Be thine the glory, and be thine the praise.
2 Why shou'd the heathen spread their taunts abroad,
And ask insulting, Where is now your God?
3 Where is our God? 'Bove yon bright worlds on high,
With glory all-array'd, with majesty;
His boundless pow'r o'er all the earth is known;
His pow'r with dire dismay they soon shall own;
4 Shall prove the weakness of the faith they hold
In imag'd gods, of silver, and of gold;
In gods, who not their pray'rs can understand,
But owe their being to the sculptor's hand.
5 A mouth they have; yet have they not a voice;
Have eyes, yet cannot in the light rejoice;
6 Their nostrils no rich fragrant odours taste,
Nor with harmonious sound their ears are blest;
7 Their hands are useless, and their feet not move;
Speech is not theirs what peerless gods they prove?
8 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!
9 But thou, O Israel, trust thou in the Lord,
And he'll to thee his surest aid afford;
10 Ye house of Aaron, on your God rely,
And in distress assistance he'll supply;
11 Croud, croud, ye pious souls, his sacred court,
For he'll the righteous constantly support.
12 Still mindful of his people, still he'll bless,
And crown their days with affluence and peace.
13 Or be they young, or old, or rich, or poor,
They have his favour, who his name adore;
14 The happy objects of his love they are,
And e'en their children's children prove his care.
15 Who form'd yon heav'ns and this terrestrial ball,
Benignly hears us, and preserves us all.
16 The heav'ns with his own presence does he grace,
And gives this beauteous earth to human race.
17 While not the silent dead their maker praise,
18 We'll chant his glory in sublimest lays;
While rolls this spacious globe, our God we'll sing,
And hymn for ever our immortal king.