How should the sons of Adam’s race

be pure before their God?

If he contends in righteousness,

we sink beneath his rod.

If he should mark my words and thoughts

with strict enquiring eyes,

Could I for one of thousand faults

the least excuse devise?

Strong in his arm, his heart is wise;

who dares with him contend?

Or who, that tries th’ unequal strife,

shall prosper in the end?

He makes the mountains feel his wrath,

and their old seats forsake;

The trembling earth deserts her place,

and all her pillars shake.

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 raging sea;

flies on the stormy wind:

None can explore his wondrous way,

or his dark footsteps find.