Psalms 146-147

Psalm 146 (2 of 2)

1 I'LL praise my Maker with my breath, And when my voice is lost in death, Praise shall employ my nobler powers: My days of praise shall ne'er be past, While life and thought and being last, Or immortality endures.

2 Why should I make a man my trust?

Princes must die and turn to dust!—

Vain is the help of flesh and blood: Their breath departs, their pomp and power And thoughts all vanish in an hour, Nor can they make their promise good.

3 Happy the man whose hopes rely On Israel's God: He made the sky, And earth, and seas, with all their train: His truth for ever stands secure;

He saves the oppress'd, He feeds the poor, And none shall find His promise vain.

4 The Lord hath eyes to give the blind; The Lord supports the sinking mind;

He sends the labouring conscience peace:

He helps the stranger in distress, The widow and the fatherless, And grants the prisoners sweet release.

5 He loves His saints, He knows them well, But turns the wicked down to hell;

Thy God, O Zion, ever reigns:

Let every tongue, let every age, In this exalted work engage;

Praise Him in everlasting strains.

6 I'll praise Him while He lends me breath, And when my voice is lost in death, Praise shall employ my nobler powers: My days of praise shall ne'er be past, While life, and thought, and being last, Or immortality endures.

Isaac Watts, 1719.

Psalm 147 (1 of 2)

1 O PRAISE the Lord, 'tis sweet to raise The grateful heart to God in praise; When fallen raised, when lost restored, Oh! it is sweet to praise the Lord!

2 Great is His power, divine His skill, His love diviner, greater still; The sinner's Friend, the mourner's stay, He sends no suppliant sad away.

3 The lions roar to Him for bread, The ravens by His hand are fed; And shall His chosen flock despair? Shall they mistrust their Shepherd's care?

4 His church is precious in His sight;

He makes her glory His delight; His treasures on her head are pour'd;

O Zion's children, praise the Lord, Henry Francis Lyte, 1831.

Psalm 147 (2 of 2)

1 PRAISE ye the Lord; 'tis good to raise Our hearts and voices in His praise: His nature and His works invite To make this duty our delight.

2 The Lord builds up Jerusalem, And gathers nations to His name: His mercy melts the stubborn soul, And makes the broken spirit whole.

3 He form'd the stars, those heavenly flames;

He counts their numbers, calls their names: His wisdom's vast, and knows no bound, A deep where all our thoughts are drown'd

4 Great is our Lord, and great His might; And all His glories infinite:

He crowns the meek, rewards the just, And treads the wicked to the dust.

Isaac Watts, 1719.