Praise ye the Lord; ¡¦tis good to raise
Our hearts and
voices in His praise;
His nature and His works invite
To
make this duty our delight.
He formed the stars, those heav¡¦nly 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 all round 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,
the warlike horse,
The nimble 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.
