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 on 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.