How should the sons of Ad­am’s race
Be pure be­fore their God?
If He con­tend in right­eous­ness,
We fall be­neath His rod.

To vin­di­cate my words and thoughts
I’ll make no more pre­tense;
Not one of all my thou­sand faults
Can bear a just de­fense.

Strong is His arm, His heart is wise;
What vain per­fum­ers dare
Against their mak­er’s hand to rise,
Or tempt th’un­eq­ual war?

Mountains by His al­migh­ty wrath
From their old seats are torn;
He shakes the earth, from south to north,
And all her pil­lars mourn.

He bids the sun for­bear to rise;
Th’obedient sun for­bears:
His hand with sack­cloth spreads the skies,
And seals up all the stars.

He walks upon the stor­my sea;
Flies on the stor­my wind:
There’s none can trace His won­drous way,
Or His dark foot­steps find.