1 I'll praise my Maker with my breath; And when my voice is lost in death Praise shall employ my nobler powers: My days of praise shall ne'er he past While life and thought and being last, Or immortality endures.
2 Why should I make a man my trust? Princes must die and turn to dust; Vain is the help of flesh and blood: Their breath departs, their pomp and power, And thoughts all vanish in an hour, Nor can they make their promise good.
3 Happy the man whose hopes rely On Israel's God: he made the sky, And earth and seas with all their train; His truth for ever stands secure; He saves th' opprest, he feeds the poor, And none shall find his promise vain.
4 The Lord hath eyes to give the blind; The Lord supports the sinking mind; He sends the labouring conscience peace: He helps the stranger in distress, The widow and the fatherless, And grants the prisoner sweet release.
5 He loves his saints; he knows them well, But turns the wicked down to hell; Thy God, O Zion, ever reigns: Let every tongue, let every age, In this exalted work engage; Praise him in everlasting strains.
6 I'll praise him while he lends me breath, And when my voice is lost in death Praise shall employ my nobler powers: My days of praise shall ne'er be past While life and thought and being last, Or immortality endures.