Psalm 115 (Version 2)

Not to our names, thou only Just and True,

Not to our worthless names is glory due;

Thy power and grace, thy truth and justice claim

Immortal honours to thy sovereign Name:

Shine thro' the earth from heaven, thy blest abode,

Nor let the heathens say, "And where's your God?"

Heaven is thine higher court; there stands thy throne,

And thro' the lower worlds thy will is done:

Our God fram'd all this earth, these heavens he spread,

But fools adore the gods their hands have made:

The kneeling crowd, with looks devout, behold

Their silver saviours, and their saints of gold.

[Vain are those artful shapes of eyes and ears;

The molten image neither sees nor hears:

Their hands are helpless, nor their feet can move,

They have no speech, nor thought, nor power, nor love;

Yet sottish mortals make their long complaints

To their deaf idols, and their moveless saints.

The rich have statues well adorn'd with gold;

The poor, content with gods of coarser mould,

With tools of iron carve the senseless stock,

Lopt from a tree, or broken from a rock:

People and priest drive on the solemn trade,

And trust the gods that saws and hammers made.]

Be heaven and earth amaz'd! 'Tis hard to say

Which is more stupid, or their gods or they:

O Israel, trust the Lord, he hears and sees,

He knows thy sorrows, and restores thy peace:

His worship does a thousand comforts yield,

He is thy help, and he thy heavenly shield.

O Britain, trust the Lord: thy foes in vain

Attempt thy ruin, and oppose his reign;

Had they prevail'd, darkness had clos'd our days,

And death and silence had forbid his praise;

But we are sav'd, and live: let songs arise,

And Britain bless the God that built the skies.