The Lord our God is clothed with might,
The winds obey his will;
He speaks, and in his heavenly height
The rolling sun stands still.
Rebel, ye waves, and o'er the land
With threatening aspect roar;
The Lord uplifts his awful hand,
And chains you to the shore.
Ye winds of night, your force combine;
Without his high behest,
Ye shall not, in the mountain pine,
Disturb the sparrow's nest.
His voice sublime is heard afar;
In distant peals it dies;
He yokes the whirlwind to his car
And sweeps the howling skies.
Ye sons of earth, in reverence bend;
Ye nations, wait his nod;
And bid the choral song ascend
To celebrate our God.
--H. Kirke White.