How should the sons of Adam's race
Be pure before their God?
If he contend in righteousness,
We fall beneath his rod.
To vindicate my words and thoughts
I'll make no more pretence;
Not one of all my thousand faults
Can bear a just defence.
Strong is his arm, his heart is wise;
What vain presumer's dare
Against their Maker's hand to rise,
Or tempt th' unequal war?
Mountains, by his almighty wrath,
From their old seats are torn;
He shakes the earth from south to north,
And all her pillars mourn.
He bids the sun forbear to rise,
Th' obedient sun forbears;
His hand with sackcloth spreads the skies,
And seals up all the stars.
He walks upon the stormy sea,
Flies on the stormy wind;
There's none can trace his wondrous way,
Or his dark footsteps find.
~ Isaac Watts