Hast thou an arm like God, that can
Against him take the field,
And win by force? Art thou, O man,
With pow'r almighty steel'd?

Canst thou both heav'n and earth sedate,
Fright with a dreadful noise;
Or most exactly imitate
Jehovah's thund'ring voice?

If thou, poor mean dependant wight,
Presum'st with God to vie,
Then now adorn thyself with light,
With pomp and majesty.

With state and dread that can and will
The host of hell annoy;
With beauties too, that heav'n can fill
With wonder and with joy.

Cast forth the fury of thy wrath,
See and abase the proud;
And look them down to hell beneath,
Whose wealth their vices shroud.

Hide thou and bind them in the dust
And crown them in their caves;
For here's the work of God, the just,
Who digs the wicked's graves.

Do these great things; then thou, I'll grant,
Mayst thine own saviour be:
But weak, unequal combatant,
Submit thou must to me.