THE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SEVENTH PSALM.
O, praise the Lord! praise his great Dame!
It is good of his praises to sing;
It is joyful to worship the Lord,
And own him our Saviour and King.
It is good of his praises to sing;
It is joyful to worship the Lord,
And own him our Saviour and King.
His outcasts he yet will redeem;
His pitying love has no bounds;
He healeth the broken in heart,
And gently he binds up their wounds.
His pitying love has no bounds;
He healeth the broken in heart,
And gently he binds up their wounds.
He counteth the number of stars,
And calls every one by its name.
He is great—He only is great:
His infinite wisdom proclaim!
And calls every one by its name.
He is great—He only is great:
His infinite wisdom proclaim!
He lifts up the humble and meek;
The wicked he smites with his rod.
O, sing to the Lord with thanksgiving,
Sing praise on the harp to our God,—
The wicked he smites with his rod.
O, sing to the Lord with thanksgiving,
Sing praise on the harp to our God,—
Who gives every creature his food;
Who prepareth the rain for the earth;
Who covers the heavens with clouds;
Whose word gave the universe birth.
Who prepareth the rain for the earth;
Who covers the heavens with clouds;
Whose word gave the universe birth.
He delights not in beauty or strength;
But he who shall serve him with fear,
Who trusts in his mercy and love,
To the Father of mercies is dear.
But he who shall serve him with fear,
Who trusts in his mercy and love,
To the Father of mercies is dear.