1 Awake, ye saints; to praise your King, Your sweetest passions raise, Your pious pleasure, while you sing, Increasing with the praise.
2 Great is the Lord; and works unknown Are his divine employ; But still his saints are near his throne, His treasure and his joy.
3 Heaven, earth, and sea, confess his hand; He bids the vapours rise; Lightning and storm at his command Sweep thro' the sounding skies.
4 All power, that gods or kings have claim'd Is found with him alone; But heathen gods should ne'er be nam'd Where our Jehovah's known.
5 Which of the stocks or stones they trust Can give them showers of rain? In vain they worship glittering dust, And pray to gold in vain.
6 [Their gods have tongues that cannot talk, Such as their makers gave: Their feet were ne'er design'd to walk, Nor hands have power to save.
7 Blind are their eyes, their ears are deaf, Nor hear when mortals pray; Mortals, that wait for their relief, Are blind, and deaf as they.]
8 O Britain, know thy living God, Serve him with faith and fear; He makes thy churches his abode, And claims thine honours there.