The Lord Our God Is Clothed with Might

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.