Shall the vile race of flesh and blood

Contend with their Creator God?

Shall mortal worms presume to be

More holy, wise, or just than he?

Behold, he puts his trust in none

Of all the spirits round his throne:

Their natures, when compared with his,

Are neither holy, just, nor wise.

But how much meaner things are they

Who spring from dust, and dwell in clay!

Touched by the finger of thy wrath,

We faint and vanish like the moth.

From night to day, from day to night,

We die by thousands in thy sight;

Buried in dust whole nations lie

Like a forgotten vanity.

Almighty Power, to thee we bow;

How frail are we, how glorious thou!

No more the sons of earth shall dare

With an eternal God compare.