1 To thee, most holy, and most high,
To thee, we bring our thankful praise;
Thy works declare thy name is nigh,
Thy works of wonder and of grace.
2 Britain was doom'd to be a slave,
Her frame dissolv'd, her fears were great;
When God a new supporter gave
To bear the pillars of the state.
3 He from thy hand receiv'd his crown,
And sware to rule by wholesome laws
His foot shall tread th' oppressor down,
His arm defend the righteous cause.
4 Let haughty sinners sink their pride,
Nor lift so high their scornful head;
But lay their foolish thoughts aside,
And own the king that God hath made.
5 Such honours never come by chance,
Nor do the winds promotion blow;
'Tis God the judge doth one advance,
'Tis God that lays another low.
6 No vain pretence to royal birth
Shall fix a tyrant on the throne:
God the great sovereign of the earth
Will rise and make his justice known.
7 [His hand holds out the dreadful cup
Of vengeance, mix'd with various plagues,
To make the wicked drink them up,
Wring out and taste the bitter dregs.
8 Now shall the Lord exalt the just,
And while he tramples on the proud,
And lays their glory in the dust,
My lips shall sing his praise aloud.]
