To the tune of the 50th Psalm.
Popish idolatry reproved.
A Psalm for the Fifth of November.
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 honors to thy sovereign name:
Shine through the earth from heav'n, thy blest abode
Nor let the heathens say, |And where's your God?|
Heav'n is thine higher court, there stands thy throne,
And through the lower worlds thy will is done;
Our God framed all this earth, these heav'ns he spread;
But fools adore the gods their hands have made:
The kneeling crowd, with looks devout, behold
Their silver saviors, 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 adorned with gold;
The poor, content with gods of coarser mould,
With tools of iron carve the senseless stock,
Lopped 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 heav'n and earth amazed! 'Tis hard to say
Which is more stupid, or their gods or they:
O Isr'el, 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 heav'nly shield.
O Britain, trust the Lord: thy foes in vain
Attempt thy ruin, and oppose his reign;
Had they prevailed, darkness had closed our days,
And death and silence had forbid his praise:
But we are saved, and live; let songs arise,
And Britain bless the God that built the skies.