Father of Light! exhaustless source of good! 
    Supreme, eternal, self-existent God! 
    Before the beamy sun dispens’d a ray,
    Flam’d in the azure vault, and gave the day;
    Before the glimm’ring Moon with borrow’d light,
    Shone queen amid the silver host of night;
    High in the Heav’ns, thou reign’dst superior Lord,
    By suppliant angels worship’d and ador’d. 
    With the celestial choir then let me join,
    In cheerful praises to the pow’r Divine. 
    To sing thy praise, do thou, O GOD! inspire,
    A mortal breast with more than mortal fire;
    In dreadful majesty thou sit’st enthron’d,
    With light encircled, and with glory crown’d;
    Thro’ all infinitude extends thy reign,
    For thee, nor heav’n, nor heav’n of heav’ns contain;
    But tho’ thy throne is fix’d above the sky,
    Thy Omnipresence fills immensity. 
    Saints rob’d in white, to thee their anthems bring,
    And radient Martyrs hallelujahs sing: 
    Heav’n’s universal host their voices raise,
    In one eternal chorus, to thy praise;
    And round thy awful throne, with one accord,
    Sing, Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord. 
    At thy creative voice, from ancient night,
    Sprang smiling beauty, and yon’ worlds of light: 
    Thou spak’st—­the planetary Chorus roll’d
    And all th’ expanse was starr’d with beamy gold;
    Let there be light, said GOD—­Light instant shone,
    And from the orient, burst the golden Sun;
    Heav’n’s gazing hierarchies, with glad surprise,
    Saw the first morn invest the skies,
    And straight th’ exulting troops thy throne surround,
    With thousand thousand harps of heav’nly sound: 
    Thrones, powers, dominions, (ever shining trains!)
    Shouted thy praises in triumphant strains: 
    Great are thy works, they sing, and, all around,
    Great are thy works, the echoing heav’n’s resound. 
    The effulgent sun, insufferably bright,
    Is but a beam of thy o’erflowing light;
    The tempest is thy breath; the thunder hurl’d,
    Tremendous roars thy vengeance o’er the world;
    Thou bow’st the heav’ns the smoaking mountains nod;
    Rocks fall to dust, and nature owns her God;
    Pale tyrants shrink, the atheist stands aghast,
    And impious kings in horror breath their last. 
    To this great God alternately I’d pay,
    The evening anthem, and the morning lay.

    For sov’reign Gold I never would repine,
    Nor wish the glitt’ring dust of monarchs mine. 
    What tho’ high columns heave into the skies,
    Gay ceilings shine, and vaulted arches rise;
    Tho’ fretted gold the sculptur’d roof adorn,
    The rubies redden, and the jaspers burn! 
    Or what, alas! avails the gay attire,
    To wretched man, who breathes but to expire!