PRAISE ye the Lord; ’tis good to raise, Our hearts and voices in His praise: His nature and His works invite To make this service our delight.
He formed the stars, those heavenly flames, He counts their numbers, calls their names; Eternal wisdom knows no bound: A deep where all our thoughts are drowned.
He bids the grass the hills adorn, And clothes the smiling fields with corn; The beasts with food His hand supplies, And hearkens to a thousand cries.
What is the creature’s skill or fame? Or features of our human frame? The vaunted mind, the active limb? All are too mean delights for Him.
But saints are lovely in His sight, He views believers with delight; He sees their hopes, and knows their fear, And owns and loves His image there.
Isaac Watts, 1674-1748