The glo­ries of my mak­er God
My joy­ful voice shall sing,
And call the na­tions to ad­ore
Their for­mer and their king.

’Twas His right hand that shaped our clay,
And wrought this hu­man frame;
But from His own im­me­di­ate breath
Our nob­ler spir­its came.

We bring our mor­tal powers to God,
And wor­ship with our tongues;
We claim some kin­dred with the skies,
And join th’an­gel­ic songs.

Let gro­vel­ing beasts of ev­ery shape,
And fowls of ev­ery wing,
And rocks, and trees, and fires, and seas,
Their va­ri­ous tri­bute bring.

Ye pla­nets, to His ho­nor shine,
And wheels of na­ture roll,
Praise Him in your un­wear­ied course
Around the stea­dy pole.

The bright­ness of our ma­ker’s name
The wide cre­ation fills,
And His un­bound­ed gran­deur flies
Beyond the heav’n­ly hills.