1 With what delight, great God, I trace
Each act of Thy stupendous grace!
Great are the works Thy hand has wrought,
And deep beyond all search Thy thought.

2 Thy acts the minds of brutish mold
With unregarding eye behold,
And, strangers to Thy wise design,
In erring censure madly join:

3 Nor know, that, when the impious band,
Fresh as the flower, conspicuous stand,
Mature for death their heads they rear,
And swift destruction waits them near.

4 But Thou above the starry plain
In endless majesty shalt reign;
And downward from th’ethereal height
O’er subject worlds extend Thy might.