Psalm 115

We nothing can of merit clame:
Not for our sakes thy aide afford;
But for the honour of thy Name,
Thy Mercy, and unfailing Word.
Why should th'insulting Heathen cry;
Wher's now the God they vainly praise?
Our Lord inthron'd above the Skie,
All underneath at pleasure swaies.
Their Gods but Gold and silver be,
Made by a fraile Artificer:
For they have eyes, that cannot see;
Dumbe mouthes, and eares that cannot heare,
Fooles on their Altars incense throw,
Who nothing smell; their Feet are bound,
Nor have they power to moove or goe:
Their throats give passage to no sound.
Their hands can neither give nor take;
Unapt to punish or defend:
As senselesse they who Idols make,
Or to their carved Statues bend.
Your hopes on God, O Israel, place;
He is your Helpe, and strong Defence:
Be he, you Priests of Aarons Race,
The object of your confidence.
In him, all you that feare him, trust;
He shall protect you in distresse.
The Lord is of his Promise just,
And will his faithfull Servants blesse:
The House of chosen Israel,
And Aarons holy Family:
The poore, and who in power excell;
That love, and on his aide relye.
They shall a mighty People grow;
Their Children happy from their birth:
He will increase of gifts bestow,
Whose hands created Heaven and Earth.
He in the Heaven of Heavens resides,
And over all his Creatures reignes:
Among the sonnes of men divides
The Earth, and all that Earth containes.
Who sleepe within the vaults of Death,
No Offerings to his Altars bring:
O praise his Name, while we have breath;
And loudly Halelu-jah sing.