The Lord our God is clothed with might,
The winds ob­ey His will;
He speaks, and in His hea­v’n­ly height,
He speaks, and in His hea­v’nly height,
The roll­ing sun stands still.

Rebel, ye waves, and o’er the land
With threat­en­ing as­pect roar;
The Lord up­lifts His aw­ful hand,
The Lord up­lifts His aw­ful hand,
And chains you to the shore.

Ye winds of night, your force com­bine;
Without His high be­hest,
Ye shall not, in the mount­ain pine,
Ye shall not, in the mount­ain pine,
Disturb the spar­row’s rest.

His voice sub­lime is heard afar;
In dist­ant peals it dies;
He yokes the whirl­wind to His car,
He yokes the whirl­wind to His car,
And sweeps the howl­ing skies.

Ye na­tions, bend, in re­ver­ence bend;
Ye mon­archs, wait His nod;
And bid the chor­al song as­cend
And bid the chor­al song as­cend
To ce­le­brate our God.