Praise ye the Lord! 'Tis good to raise Your hearts and voices in His praise: His nature and His works invite To make this duty our delight.

He formed the stars, those heavenly flames, He counts their numbers, calls their names, His wisdom's vast, and knows no bound, A deep where all our thoughts are drowned.

Sing to the Lord; exalt Him high, Who spreads His clouds along the sky, There He prepares the fruitful rain, Nor lets the drops descend in vain.

He makes the grass the hills adorn, And clothes the smiling fields with corn; The beasts with food his hands supply, And the young ravens when they cry.

What is the creature's skill or force? The sprightly man, or warlike horse? The piercing wit, the active limb? All are too mean delights for Him.

But saints are lovely in His sight, He views His children with delight; He sees their hope, He knows their fear, And looks and loves His image there.