1 Praise to the Sov'reign of the sky,
Who from his lofty throne
Looks down on all that humble lie,
And calls such souls his own.

2 The haughty sinner he disdains,
Tho' gems his temples crown;
And from the seat of pomp and pride,
His vengeance hurls him down.

3 On his afflicted pious poor
He makes his face to shine;
He fills their cottages of clay
With lustre all divine.

4 Among the meanest of thy flock
There let my dwelling be,
Rather than under gilded roofs,
If absent, Lord, from thee.