Behold the potter and the clay,
He forms his vessels as he please;
Such is our God, and such are we,
The subjects of His high decrees.

Doth not the workman’s power extend
O’er all the mass, which part to choose
And mold it for a nobler end,
And which to leave for viler use?

May not the sovereign Lord on high
Dispense His favors as He will,
Choose some to life, while others die,
And yet be just and gracious still?

What if, to make His terror known,
He lets His patience long endure,
Suff’ring vile rebels to go on,
And seal their own destruction sure?

What if He means to show His grace,
And His electing love employs
To make out some of mortal race,
And form them fit for heav’nly joys?

Shall man reply against the Lord,
And call his maker’s ways unjust,
The thunder of whose dreadful word
Can crush a thousand worlds to dust?

But, O my soul! if truths so bright
Should dazzle and confound thy sight,
Yet still His written will obey,
And wait the great decisive day.

Then shall He make His justice known,
And the whole world before His throne
With joy or terror shall confess
The glory of His righteousness.