The earth is God's, with all she bears
On fertile dale or woody hill;
The compass of the world declares
His all efficient skill.

For her foundations has he laid,
The flowing waters to restrain,
And all her firm consistence made
Upon the mighty main.

Who shall have strength and grace to climb
Up to the sacred mount of God?
And for the holy place sublime,
What pilgrim shall be shod?

Whose hands are clean, and heart is whole,
Whose mind and tongue vain thoughts suppress,
Nor stain with perjury his soul,
His neighbour to distress;

The Lord shall bless, and give him fruit
In heav'n as his salvation speeds,
And God shall righteousness impute
To his accepted deeds.

Such is the nature and reward
Of all the children of his grace,
E'en them, who zealous for their Lord,
O Jesus, seek thy face.

On golden hinges as ye swing,
Ye gates, ye doors of endless mass,
Lift, lift your arches, and the king
Of glory shall repass.

Who is the king of glory, who
Is worthy of so great a name?
E'en Christ all pow'rful to subdue,
Of vast victorious fame.

On golden hinges as ye swing,
Ye gates, ye doors of endless mass,
Lift, lift your arches, and the king
Of glory shall repass.

Who is the king of glory, say?
'Tis Christ most worthily renown'd;
He whom the hosts of heav'n obey,
Is king of glory crown'd.