1 Ye weak inhabitants of clay,
Ye trifling insects of a day,
Low in your native dust bow down
Before th' Eternal's awful throne.

2 Let Lebanon her cedars bring,
To blaze before the sov'reign King;
And all the beasts, that on it feed,
As victims at his altar bleed.

3 Loud let ten thousand trumpets sound,
And call remotest nations round,
Assembled on the crowded plains,
Princes and people, kings and swains.

4 Join'd with the living, let the dead,
Rising, the face of earth o'erspread;
And, while his praise unites their tongues,
Let angels echo back the songs.

5. The drop that from the bucket falls,
The dust that hangs upon the scales,
Is more to sky and earth and sea,
Than all this pomp, great God! to thee.