Psalm 115.

The true God our refuge; or, Idolatry reproved.

1 Not to ourselves, who are but dust,
Not to ourselves is glory due,
Eternal God, thou only just,
Thou only gracious, wise, and true,

2 Shine forth in all thy dreadful name;
Why should a heathen's haughty tongue
Insult us, and to raise our shame
Say," Where's the God you've serv'd so long?"

3 The God we serve maintains his throne
Above the clouds, beyond the skies,
Thro' all the earth his will is done,
He knows our groans, he hears our cries.

4 But the vain idols they adore
Are senseless shapes of stone and wood;
At best a mass of glittering ore,
A silver saint, or golden god.

5 [With eyes, and ears they carve their head,
Deaf are their ears, their eyes are blind;
In vain are costly offerings made,
And vows are scatter'd in the wind.

6 Their feet were never made to move,
Nor hands to save when mortals pray;
Mortals that pay them fear or love
Seem to be blind and deaf as they.]

7 O Israel, make the Lord thy hope,
Thy help, thy refuge, and thy rest;
The Lord shall build thy ruins up,
And bless the people and the priest.

8 The dead no more can speak thy praise,
They dwell in silence and the grave;
But we shall live to sing thy grace,
And tell the world thy power to save.

Psalm 115.

To the tune of the 50th Psalm.
Popish idolatry reproved.
A psalm for the 5th of November.

1 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?"

2 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.

3 [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.

4 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,
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.]

5 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.

6 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.


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