1 Shall the vile race of flesh and blood Contend with their creator, God? Shall mortal worms presume to be More holy, wise, or just than he?
2 Behold he puts his trust in none Of all the spirits round his throne; Their natures, when compar'd with his Are neither holy, just nor wise.
3 But how much meaner things are they Who spring from dust and dwell in clay! Touch'd by the finger of thy wrath, We faint and vanish like the moth.
4 From night to day, from day to night, We die by thousands in thy sight; Bury'd in dust whole nations lie Like a forgotten vanity.
5 Almighty power, to thee we bow; How frail are we, how glorious thou! No more the sons of earth shall dare With an eternal God compare.