Can crea­tures to per­fect­ion find
Th’eter­nal, un­cre­at­ed Mind?
Or can the larg­est stretch of thought
Measure and search His na­ture out?

’Tis high as Heav’n, ’tis deep as hell
And what can mor­tals know or tell?
His glo­ry spreads be­yond the sky,
And all the shin­ing worlds on high.

But man, vain man, would fain be wise;
Born like a wild young colt, He flies
Through all the fol­lies of His mind,
And swells, and snuffs the emp­ty wind.

God is a king of pow­er un­known,
Firm are the or­ders of His throne;
If He re­solve, who dares op­pose,
Or ask him why or what He does?

He wounds the heart, and He makes whole
He calms the tem­pest of the soul;
When He shuts up in long des­pair,
Who can re­move the hea­vy bar?

He frowns, and dark­ness veils the moon;
The faint­ing sun grows dim at noon;
The pil­lars of Heav’n’s star­ry roof
Tremble and start at His re­proof.

He gave the vault­ed Heav’n its form,
The crook­ed ser­pent, and the worm;
He breaks the bil­lows with His breath,
And smites the sons of pride to death.

These are a por­tion of His ways;
But who shall dare des­cribe His face?
Who can en­dure His light, or stand
To hear the thun­ders of His hand?