Ye ser­vants of th’al­migh­ty King,
In ev­ery age His prais­es sing;
Where’er the sun shall rise or set,
The na­tions shall His praise re­peat.

Above the earth, be­yond the sky,
Stands His high throne of ma­jes­ty;
Nor time nor place His pow­er re­strain,
Nor bound His uni­vers­al reign.

Which of the sons of Ad­am dare,
Or an­gels, with their God compare?
His glo­ries how di­vine­ly bright,
Who dwells in un­cre­at­ed light!

Behold His love! He stoops to view
What saints above and an­gels do;
And con­des­cends yet more to know
The mean af­fairs of men be­low.

From dust and cot­tag­es ob­scure,
His grace ex­alts the hum­ble poor;
Gives them the ho­nor of His sons,
And fits them for their heav’n­ly thrones.

A word of His cre­at­ing voice
Can make the bar­ren house re­joice;
Though Sa­rah’s nine­ty years were past,
The pro­mised seed is born at last.

With joy the mo­ther views her son,
And tells the won­ders God has done:
Faith may grow strong when sense des­pairs,
If na­ture fails, the pro­mise bears.