1.

Ye Servants of th' eternal King,
Your grateful hymns triumphant sing:
To You I call, the chosen Band,
Who take amid his Courts your stand,
While, gliding round the dusky pole,
The starry Orbs in silence roll.

2.

Within his Temple's vaulted frame,
With lifted hands, his praise proclaim:
And He, may He, whose pow'r has made
The Earth, and Heav'n's wide arch display'd,
From sacred Sion bid thee prove
The Blessings of his boundless Love.