Praise ye the Lord; ’tis good to raise
Our hearts and voic­es in His praise;
His na­ture and His works in­vite
To make this du­ty our de­light.

The Lord builds up Je­ru­sa­lem,
And ga­thers na­tions to His name;
His mer­cy melts the stub­born soul,
And makes the brok­en spir­it whole.

He formed the stars, those heav’n­ly flames;
He counts their num­bers, calls their names;
His wis­dom’s vast, and knows no bound,
A deep where all our thoughts are drowned.

Great is our Lord, and great His might;
And all His glo­ries in­fi­nite:
He crowns the meek, re­wards the just,
And treads the wick­ed to the dust.

Sing to the Lord, ex­alt Him high,
Who spreads His clouds all round the sky;
There He pre­pares the fruit­ful rain,
Nor lets the drops des­cend in vain.

He makes the grass the hills adorn,
And clothes the smil­ing fields with corn;
The beasts with food His hands sup­ply,
And the young ra­vens when they cry.

What is the crea­ture’s skill or force,
The spright­ly man, the war­like horse,
The nim­ble wit, the ac­tive limb?
All are too mean de­lights for Him.

But saints are love­ly in His sight,
He views His childr­en with de­light;
He sees their hope, He knows their fear,
And looks, and loves His im­age there.