In work so pleasant, so divine,
Now, while the flesh is my abode,
And when my soul ascends to God.
Praise shall employ my noblest pow’rs
While immortality endures;
My days of praise shall ne’er be past
While life and thought and being last.
Why should I make a man my trust?
Princes must die and turn to dust.
Their breath departs; their pomp and pow’r
And thoughts all vanish in an hour.
Happy the man whose hopes rely
On Israel’s God! He made the sky
And earth and seas with all their train,
And none shall find his promise vain.
His truth forever stands secure.
He saves th’oppressed; he feeds the poor;
He sends the troubled conscience peace
And grants the captive sweet release.
The Lord gives eyesight to the blind;
The Lord supports the sinking mind.
He helps the stranger in distress,
The widow, and the fatherless.
He loves the Saints—he knows them well—
But turns the wicked down to hell.
Thy God, O Zion, ever reigns;
Praise him in everlasting strains.