How glo­ri­ous is our heav’n­ly king,
Who reigns above the sky!
How shall a child pre­sume to sing
His aw­ful ma­jes­ty?

How great His pow’r is, none can tell,
Nor think how large His grace;
Not men be­low, nor saints who dwell,
On high, be­fore His face.

Not an­gels, who stand round the Lord,
Can search His sec­ret will;
But they per­form His heav’n­ly word,
And sing His prais­es still.

Then let me join this ho­ly train,
And my first of­fer­ings bring;
Th’eter­nal God will not dis­dain
To hear an in­fant sing.

My heart re­solves, my tongue ob­eys,
And an­gels will re­joice
To hear their migh­ty mak­er’s praise
Sound from a fee­ble voice.