How great the Pow'r, who gave those Worlds to roll;
The Thought strikes inward, and confounds the Soul;
Fall down, O Man — Ah fall before the Rod
Of this Almighty, All-creating God:
But hark — from Heav'n there came a chearing Sound;
Now Man revives, and smile the Worlds around:
'Tis Mercy — lo a golden Ray descends,
And Hope and Comfort in the Lustre blends.