1 Look down, O Lord, with pitying eye;
See Adam’s race in ruin lie;
Sin spreads its trophies o’er the ground,
And scatters slaughtered heaps around.

2 And can these moldering corpses live?
And can these perished bones revive?
That, mighty God, to Thee is known;
That wondrous work is all Thine own.

3 Thy ministers are sent in vain
To prophesy upon the slain;
In vain they call, in vain they cry,
’Till Thine almighty aid is nigh.

4 But if Thy Spirit deign to breathe,
Life spreads thro’ all the realms of death;
Dry bones obey the powerful voice;
They move, they waken, they rejoice.

5 So when Thy trumpet’s awful sound
Shall shake the heav’ns, and rend the ground,
Dead saints shall from their tombs arise,
And spring to life beyond the skies.