With What Delight, Great God, I Trace

With what de­light

great God

I trace

Each act of Thy stu­pen­dous grace!

Great are the works Thy hand has wrought

And deep be­yond all search Thy thought.

Thy acts the minds of brut­ish mold

With un­re­gard­ing eye be­hold

And

strang­ers to Thy wise d­esign

In err­ing cen­sure mad­ly join:

Nor know

that

when the im­pi­ous band

Fresh as the flow­er

con­spi­cu­ous stand

Mature for death their heads they rear

And swift de­struct­ion waits them near.

But Thou above the star­ry plain

In end­less ma­jes­ty shalt reign;

And down­ward from th’e­ther­eal height

O’er sub­ject worlds ex­tend Thy might.