The praise of Si­on waits for Thee,
My God, and praise be­comes Thy house;
There shall Thy saints Thy glo­ry see,
And there per­form their pub­lic vows.

O Thou whose mer­cy bends the skies
To save when hum­ble sin­ners pray,
All lands to Thee shall lift their eyes,
And is­lands of the north­ern sea.

Against my will my sins pre­vail,
But grace shall purge away their stain;
The blood of Christ shall ne­ver fail
To wash my gar­ments white again.

Blest is the man whom Thou shalt choose,
And give him kind ac­cess to Thee;
Give him a place with­in Thy house,
To taste Thy love di­vin­ely free.

Let Ba­bel fear when Si­on prays;
Babel, pre­pare for long dis­tress,
When Sion’s God Him­self ar­rays
In ter­ror and in right­eous­ness.

With dread­ful glo­ry God ful­fills
What His af­flict­ed saint’s re­quest;
And with al­migh­ty wrath re­veals
His love, to give His church­es rest.

Then shall the flock­ing na­tions run
To Si­on’s hill, and own their Lord;
The ris­ing and the set­ting sun
Shall see the Sav­ior’s name adored.