Praise ye the Lord, my heart shall join
In work so plea­sant, so di­vine;
Now, while the flesh is mine abode,
And when my soul as­cends to God.

Praise shall em­ploy my nob­lest pow­ers,
While im­mor­ta­li­ty endures;
My days of praise shall ne’er be past,
While life, and thought, and be­ing last.

Why should I make a man my trust?
Princes must die and turn to dust;
Their breath de­parts, their pomp, and pow­er,
And thoughts, all van­ish in an hour.

Happy the man whose hopes re­ly
On Is­ra­el’s God; He made the sky,
And earth, and seas, with all their train,
And none shall find His pro­mise vain.

His truth for­ev­er stands se­cure;
He saves th’op­pressed, He feeds the poor;
He sends the la­bor­ing con­science peace,
And grants the pri­son­er sweet re­lease.

The Lord hath eyes to give the blind;
The Lord sup­ports the sink­ing mind;
He helps the stran­ger in dis­tress,
The wi­dow and the fa­ther­less.

He loves his saints, He knows them well,
But turns the wick­ed down to hell:
Thy God, O Zi­on! ev­er reigns;
Praise Him in ev­er­last­ing strains.