Look down, O Lord, with pi­ty­ing eye;
See Ad­am’s race in ru­in lie;
Sin spreads its tro­phies o’er the ground,
And scat­ters slaugh­tered heaps around.

And can these mol­der­ing corps­es live?
And can these per­ished bones re­vive?
That, migh­ty God, to Thee is known;
That won­drous work is all Thine own.

Thy min­is­ters are sent in vain
To pro­phe­sy up­on the slain;
In vain they call, in vain they cry,
’Till Thine al­migh­ty aid is nigh.

But if Thy Spi­rit deign to breathe,
Life spreads thro’ all the realms of death;
Dry bones ob­ey the pow­er­ful voice;
They move, they wak­en, they re­joice.

So when Thy trum­pet’s aw­ful sound
Shall shake the heav’ns, and rend the ground,
Dead saints shall from their tombs arise,
And spring to life be­yond the skies.