Scripture Verse

Let God arise, let His enemies be scattered: let them also that hate Him flee before Him. Psalm 68:1


Nahum Tate (1652–1715)

Words: From A New Ver­sion of the Psalms of Da­vid, by Na­hum Tate & Ni­cho­las Bra­dy, 1698, alt.

Music: Spires from Geist­liche Lied­er, by Jo­seph Klug, 1543. Har­mo­ny by Jo­hann S. Bach (🔊 pdf nwc).

If you know where to get a good pic­ture of Klug (head & shoul­ders, at least 200×300 pix­els),

Alternate Tunes:


Let God, the God of bat­tle, rise,
And scat­ter His pre­sump­tu­ous foes;
Let shame­ful rout their host sur­prise,
Who spite­ful­ly His pow­er op­pose.

As smoke in tem­pest’s rage is lost,
Or wax in­to the fur­nace cast;
So let the sac­ri­le­gious host
Before His wrath­ful pre­sence waste.

But let the ser­vants of His will
His favor’s gen­tle beams en­joy;
Their upright hearts let glad­ness fill,
And cheer­ful songs their tongues em­ploy.

To Him your voice in an­thems raise;
Jehovah’s aw­ful name He bears:
In Him re­joice, ex­tol His praise,
Who rides up­on high-roll­ing spheres.

He, from His em­pire of the skies,
To this low world com­pas­sion draws,
The or­phan’s claim to pa­tron­ize,
And judge the in­jured wi­dow’s cause.

’Tis God who from a for­eign soil
Restores poor ex­iles to their home,
Makes cap­tives free; and fruit­less toil
Their proud op­press­ors’ right­eous doom.

’Twas so of old, when Thou didst lead
In pe­rson, Lord, our ar­mies forth:
Strange ter­rors through the de­sert spread,
Convulsions shook th’as­ton­ished earth.

The break­ing clouds did rain dis­till,
And heav’n’s high arch­es shook with fear;
How then should Si­nai’s hum­ble hill
Of Is­rael’s God the pre­sence bear?

Thy hand, at fam­ished earth’s com­plaint,
Relieved her from ce­les­ti­al stores;
And when Thy he­ri­tage was faint,
Assuaged the drought with plen­te­ous show­ers.

Where sav­ag­es had ranged be­fore,
At ease Thou mad’st our tribes re­side;
And, in the de­sert, for the poor,
Thy gen­er­ous boun­ty did pro­vide.

When God His gra­cious word sent forth,
To make His chos­en glad,
Numbers from east, south, west, and north
The joy­ful tid­ings spread.

Great kings of arm­ies fled apace,
And met a fa­tal soil;
While those that stayed at home, with ease
And plea­sure shared the spoil.

Though ye among the pots have lain,
Like doves shall ye ap­pear,
With sil­ver wings and gold di­vine,
From dross and mix­ture clear.

When God the po­tent kings ex­pelled
From Ca­naan at His will,
The white­ness of His robes ex­celled
The snow of Sal­mon’s hill.

The hill of God, His chos­en seat,
On Zi­on’s mount is found:
Not Ba­shan’s hill can boast such state,
Nor all the hills around.

Ye lof­ty hills, why leap ye so?
This is the hill of God:
Here He hath chose to dwell, and lo!
Here is His fixed abode.

His cha­ri­ots num­ber­less; His pow­ers
Are heav’n­ly hosts, that wait His will:
His pre­sence now fills Si­on’s tow­ers,
As once it hon­ored Si­nai’s hill.

Ascending high, in tri­umph Thou
Captivity hast cap­tive led;
And on Thy peo­ple didst be­stow
The spoil of ar­mies, once their dread.

E’en re­bels shall par­take Thy grace,
And hum­ble pro­se­lytes re­pair
To wor­ship at Thy dwell­ing place,
And all the world pay hom­age there.

We bless the Lord, the just, the good,
Who fills our hearts with heav’n­ly food;
Who pours His bless­ings from the skies,
And loads our days with rich sup­plies.

He sends His sun His cir­cuit round,
To cheer the fruits, to warm the ground;
He bids the clouds with plen­te­ous rain
Refresh the thirs­ty earth again.

Tis to His care we owe our breath,
And all our near es­capes from death:
Safety and health to God be­long;
He heals the weak, and guards the strong,

He makes the saint and sin­ner prove
The com­mon bless­ings of His love;
But the wide dif­fer­ence that re­mains,
Is end­less joy, or end­less pains.

The Lord that bruised the ser­pent’s head,
On all the ser­pent’s seed shall tread,
The stub­born sinner’s hope con­found,
And smite Him with a last­ing wound.

But His right hand His saints shall raise
From deep­est earth or deep­er seas,
And bring them to His courts above;
There shall they taste His spe­cial love.

For be­ne­fits each day be­stowed,
Be dai­ly His great name adored;
Who is our Sav­ior and our God,
Of life and death the so­ve­reign Lord.

Who, mount­ed on the lof­ti­est sphere
Of an­cient Heav’n, sub­lime­ly rides;
From whence His dread­ful voice we hear,
Like that of war­ring winds and tides.

Ascribe ye pow­er to God most high
Of hum­ble Is­ra­el He takes care;
Whose strength, from out the du­sky sky,
Darts shin­ing ter­rors through the air.

How dread­ful are the sac­red courts,
Where God has fixed His earth­ly throne!
His strength His fee­ble saints sup­ports,
To God give praise, and Him alone.