The Lord Jehovah built the skies,
And rear'd this stately frame:
The wide creation testifies
The greatness of his name.

The liquid element below
Was gather'd by his hand:
The rolling seas together flow,
And leave the solid land.

To him, the Maker, does pertain
What in the ocean is:
The finny people of the main,
And monsters there, are his.

The dusky shades of hell that lie,
Wrapt up in webs of night.
May well elude the solar eye,
But not the Almighty's sight.

Death and destruction do in vain,
Their sable covering spread,
And in their secret vaults enchain,
Or fast lock up the dead.

The eye of the Almighty does
Their spoils entire survey;
And no distinction ever knows
Betwixt the night and day.

He, o'er the airy empty place,
In pomp displays on high
The wide expanse, and ample space,
Of all the northern sky.

The pond'rous earth, at his command,
Hangs in the ambient air;
No pillars bear the fabric grand,
But just his will and care.

He bids the clouds with water pent,
Imprison'd tempests chain;
Then their big floating wombs, unrent,
Suspend the birth of rain.

Again he bids their bosom ope,
And down the blessing pours,
To feed the lab'ring farmer's hope
With warm prolific show'rs.

Lest his high throne, so dazzling bright,
By naked eyes unseen,
With too much glore oppress our sight,
He spreads his clouds between.

He raises rocky fences round
The spacious swelling deep,
Which do the raging billows bound,
Mad waves in prison keep:

That while the rule of day and night,
The sun and moon maintain,
The rolling seas may have no might
To drown the earth again.

High hills, that pillars seem and props
Of heav'n's expanded roof,
Do quake, and bow their tow'ring tops
Aghast as his reproof.

He cleaves the main, bids billows rise,
Then curbs the swelling tide:
How soon they cope with clouds and skies,
So soon he lays their pride.

The trembling waves at his command,
Creep softly to the shore;
Storms over-aw'd do silent stand,
Do quickly cease to roar.

Thus lawless seas he does control,
Diversifies the deep;
He makes the sleeping billows roll,
The rolling billows sleep.

He spreads the heav'ns, their azure face
He garnish'd by his might:
And did them most profusely grace
With constellations bright.

His hand the crooked serpent made;
But who can speak his art?
Of whom all's nothing that is said,
We know so small a part.

Who can the utmost force explore
Of his almighty hands!
For ev'n the thunder of his pow'r
What mortal understands?