Nature, with all her powers, shall sing,

God the Creator and the King;

Nor air, nor earth, nor skies, nor seas,

Deny the tribute of their praise.

[Begin to make his glories known,

Ye seraphs that sit near his throne;

Tune your harps high, and spread the sound

To the creation's utmost bound.

All mortal things of meaner frame,

Exert your force, and own his name;

Whilst with our souls and with our voice

We sing his honors and our joys.]

[To him be sacred all we have,

From the young cradle to the grave;

Our lips shall his loud wonders tell,

And every word a miracle.]

[This northern isle, our native land,

Lies safe in God th' Almighty's hand;

Our foes of victory dream in vain,

And wear the captivating chain.

He builds and guards the British throne,

And makes it gracious like his own;

Makes our successive princes kind,

And gives our dangers to the wind.]

Raise monumental praises high

To him that thunders through the sky,

And with an awful nod or frown

Shakes an aspiring tyrant down.

[Pillars of lasting brass proclaim

The triumphs of th' Eternal name;

While trembling nations read from far

The honors of the God of war.]

Thus let our flaming zeal employ

Our loftiest thoughts and loudest songs;

Britain, pronounce with warmest joy

Hosannah from ten thousand tongues.

Yet, mighty God! our feeble frame

Attempts in vain to reach thy name;

The strongest notes that angels raise,

Faint in the worship and the praise.