Isaac Watts · 509 of 724

Hymn 1

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.