Thou shalt not doubt the King most high,
Whose glo­ry is cre­ation’s good:
Sunlike His beams of ma­jes­ty
The storm­ing ages have with­stood.
The pil­lars of eter­nal right
Who from their roc­ky hold can wrench?
The flame of the eter­nal light
What gloom can hide, what wind can quench?

Thou shalt not doubt the aw­ful King;
Glory is His, but ter­ror, too;
The re­bel storms their hom­age bring,
And bow their pride His will to do.
If dark­ness is His judg­ment-dress,
His sun­ny robes He will re­sume;
Unfailing He re­turns to bless,
Like day­break from the mi­dnight’s tomb.

Thou shalt not doubt eter­nal God;
Mercy up­holds His state­ly throne;
He wins cre­ation’s heart by blood;
Our blood it is, and yet His own.
O so­lemn and con­sol­ing sign!
Wilt thou be saved? He save thee will.
Thy blood was His; then His is thine;
He in thee will thine hope ful­fill.