Look Down, O Lord

Look down

O Lord

with pi­ty­ing eye;

See Ad­am’s race in ru­in lie;

Sin spreads its tro­phies o’er the ground

And scat­ters slaugh­tered heaps around.

And can these mol­der­ing corps­es live?

And can these per­ished bones re­vive?

That

migh­ty God

to Thee is known;

That won­drous work is all Thine own.

Thy min­is­ters are sent in vain

To pro­phe­sy up­on the slain;

In vain they call

in vain they cry

’Till Thine al­migh­ty aid is nigh.

But if Thy Spir­it deign to breathe

Life spreads thro’ all the realms of death;

Dry bones ob­ey the pow­er­ful voice;

They move

they wak­en

they re­joice.

So when Thy trum­pet’s aw­ful sound

Shall shake the heav’ns

and rend the ground

Dead saints shall from their tombs arise

And spring to life be­yond the skies.