O lovely thing

        To sing and praises frame

To thee, O Lord, and thy high name;

              With early spring

        Thy bounty to display,

Thy truth when night hath vanquished day:

              Yea so to sing,

        That ten-stringed instrument

With lute, and harp, and voice consent.

              For, Lord, my mind [10]

        Thy works with wonder fill;

Thy doings are my comfort still.

              What wit can find,

        How bravely thou hast wrought,

Or deeply sound thy shallow’st thought?

              The fool is blind,

        And blindly doth not know,

How like the grass the wicked grow.