Job, Chapter 26

All tongues, said Iob, of thy perfections speake;
Thou he that renders vigor to the weake:
Thy strength the feeble Arme with Nerves supplies;
Thou by thy Counsell makes the foolish wise:
No secret from thy Knowledge is conceal'd;
Caelestiall Oracles by thee reveal'd.
To whom art thou so prodigall of breath?
Or by what vertue do'st thou raise from Death?
Gods Workes, Oh Bildad, we admire no lesse:
His prudence in their Government confesse.
Dead things within the Deepe were form'd by him;
And all that in the curled Ocean swim.
The silent vaults of Death, unknowne to Light;
And Hell it selfe, lye naked to his sight.
He fashion'd those Harmonious Orbs, that roule
In restlesse Gyres about the Artick Pole.
The massie Earth, supported by his Care,
On nothing hangs in soft and fluent Aire.
He in thicke Clouds the pendant water binds;
Not thaw'd with heat, nor torne with strugling winds:
Before his radiant Throne like Curtaines spred;
Yet at his becke in showres their substance shed.
With constant bounds the raging floods confines;
Till Day his Throne to endlesse Night resignes.
Heavens Columns, when his Stormes and Thunder rake
The troubled Aire, with sodaine Horror shake.
Lo, at his Breath the swelling waves divide:
His awefull Scepter calmes their vanquish't pride.
Whose hand the adorned Firmament displai'd;
Those Serpentine yet constant Motions, made.
These but in part his power and wisedome show:
For Oh how little doe we Mortals know!
Although his Fame resound through all the world;
Like Thunder from aëriall vapors hurl'd.