Begin, my soul, th’ex­alt­ed lay,
Let each en­rap­tured thought ob­ey,
And praise th’Al­migh­ty’s name;
Lo! Heav’n and earth, and seas, and skies
In one me­lo­di­ous con­cert rise
To swell th’in­spir­ing theme!

Ye fields of light, ce­les­ti­al plains,
Where gay trans­port­ing beau­ty reigns,
Ye scenes di­vine­ly fair!
Your mak­er’s won­drous pow­er pro­claim,
Tell how He formed your shin­ing frame,
And breathed the flu­id air.

Ye an­gels, catch the thrill­ing sound!
While all th’ad­or­ing throngs around
His won­drous mer­cy sing;
Let ev­ery list­en­ing saint above,
Wake all the tune­ful soul of love,
And touch the sweet­est string.

Join, ye loud spheres, the vo­cal choir!
Thou dazz­ling orb of li­quid fire
The migh­ty chor­us aid;
Soon as grey ev­en­ing gilds the plain,
Thou moon, pro­tract the melt­ing strain,
And praise Him in the shade.

Thou, Heav’n of heav’ns, His vast abode,
Ye clouds, pro­claim your mak­er God!
Ye thun­ders, speak His pow­er;
Lo! on the light­ning’s ra­pid wings
In tri­umph rides the King of kings,
Th’as­ton­ished worlds ad­ore.

Ye deeps, with roar­ing bil­lows rise
To join the thun­der of the skies,
Praise Him who bids you roll;
His praise in soft­er notes de­clare
Each whis­per­ing breeze of yield­ing air
And breathe it to the soul.

Whate’er this liv­ing world con­tains,
That wings the air or treads the plains,
United praise be­stow;
Ye ten­ants of the ocean wide,
Proclaim Him through the migh­ty tide,
And in the deeps be­low.

Let ev­ery ele­ment re­joice:
Ye tem­pests, raise your migh­ty voice
Praise Him who bid you roll!
His praise in soft­er notes de­clare
Each whis­per­ing breeze of yield­ing air,
And breathe it to the soul.

To Him, ye grace­ful ce­dars, bow!
Ye tow­er­ing mount­ains, bend­ing low,
Your great cre­at­or own!
Tell, when af­fright­ed na­ture shook,
How Si­nai kin­dled at His look,
And trem­bled at His frown.

Ye flocks that haunt the hum­ble vale,
Ye in­sects flut­ter­ing on the gale,
In mu­tu­al con­course rise!
Crop the gay rose’s ver­meil bloom,
And waft its spoils, a sweet per­fume,
In in­cense to the skies.

Wake, all ye soar­ing throngs, and sing,
Ye cheer­ful warb­lers of the spring,
Harmonious anthems rise;
To Him who shaped your finer mold,
Who tipped your glit­ter­ing wings with gold,
And tuned your voice to praise.

Let man, by nob­ler pas­sions swayed,
The feel­ing heart, the judg­ing head,
In heav’n­ly praise em­ploy;
Spread His tre­men­dous name around,
Till Heav’n’s wide arch ring back the sound,
The ge­ne­ral burst of joy.

Ye, whom the charms of gran­deur please,
Nursed on the sil­ky lap of ease,
Fall pros­trate at His throne!
Ye princ­es, rul­ers, all adore!
Praise Him, ye kings! who makes your pow­er
An im­age of His own.

Ye fair, by na­ture formed to move,
O praise th’eter­nal source of love
With youth’s en­liv­en­ing fire!
Let age take up the tune­ful lay,
Sigh His blest name—then soar away,
And ask an an­gel’s lyre.