Awake, ye saints; to praise your king
Your sweet­est pas­sions raise,
Your pi­ous plea­sure, while you sing,
Increasing with the praise.

Great is the Lord, and works un­known
Are His di­vine em­ploy;
But still His saints are near His throne,
His trea­sure and His joy.

Heav’n, earth, and sea con­fess His hand;
He bids the va­pors rise;
Lightning and storm at His com­mand
Sweep through the sound­ing skies.

All pow­er that gods or kings have claimed
Is found with Him alone;
But hea­then gods should ne’er be named
Where our Je­ho­vah’s known.

Which of the stock or stones they trust
Can give them show­ers of rain?
In vain they wor­ship glit­ter­ing dust,
And pray to gold in vain.

Their gods have tongues that can­not talk,
Such as their mak­ers gave;
Their feet were ne’er de­signed to walk,
Nor hands have pow­er to save.

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.

O na­tions, know thy liv­ing God,
Serve Him with faith and fear;
He makes thy church­es His abode,
And claims thine hon­ors there.