Nature, with all her powers, shall sing

Nature, with all her powers, shall sing,
God the Creator and the King;
Nor air, nor earth, nor skies, nor seas,
Deny the tribute of their praise.

Begin to make his glories known,
Ye seraphs that sit near his throne;
Tune your harps high, and spread the sound
To the creation's utmost bound.

All mortal things of meaner frame,
Exert your force, and own his name;
Whilst with our souls and with our voice
We sing his honors and our joys.

To him be sacred all we have,
From the young cradle to the grave;
Our lips shall his loud wonders tell,
And every word a miracle.

This northern isle, our native land,
Lies safe in God th' Almighty's hand;
Our foes of victory dream in vain,
And wear the captivating chain.

He builds and guards the British throne,
And makes it gracious like his own;
Makes our successive princes kind,
And gives our dangers to the wind.

Raise monumental praises high
To him that thunders through the sky,
And with an awful nod or frown
Shakes an aspiring tyrant down.

Pillars of lasting brass proclaim
The triumphs of th' Eternal name;
While trembling nations read from far
The honors of the God of war.

Thus let our flaming zeal employ
Our loftiest thoughts and loudest songs;
Britain, pronounce with warmest joy
Hosannah from ten thousand tongues.

Yet, mighty God! our feeble frame
Attempts in vain to reach thy name;
The strongest notes that angels raise,
Faint in the worship and the praise.