Not to our­selves, who are but dust,
Not to our­selves is glo­ry due,
Eternal God, Thou on­ly just,
Thou on­ly gra­cious, wise and true.

Shine forth in all Thy dread­ful name;
Why should a hea­then’s haugh­ty tongue
Insult us, and, to raise our shame,
Say, Where’s the God you’ve served so long?

The God we serve main­tains His throne
Above the clouds, above the skies;
Through all the earth His will is done;
He knows our groans, He hears our cries.

But the vain id­ols they adore
Are sense­less shapes of stone and wood;
At best a mass of glit­ter­ing ore,
A sil­ver saint or gold­en god.

With eyes and ears they carve their head;
Deaf are their ears, their eyes are blind;
In vain are cost­ly of­fer­ings made,
And vows are scat­tered in the wind.

Their feet were ne­ver made to move,
Nor hands to save when mor­tals pray;
Mortals that pay them fear or love
Seem to be blind and deaf as they.

O Is­ra­el! make the Lord thy hope,
Thy help, thy re­fuge, and thy rest;
The Lord shall build thy ru­ins up,
And bless the peo­ple and the priest.

The dead can no more speak Thy praise,
They dwell in si­lence and the grave;
But we shall live to sing Thy grace,
And tell the world Thy pow­er to save.