Words: . We have been un­a­ble to trace the or­i­gin of these words so far; they may be a mo­di­fied version of Watts’ text from Scot­tish Par­a­phras­es.

Music: Twenty-Fourth, in the Re­po­si­to­ry of Sac­red Mu­sic, Part Se­cond, by (Har­ris­burg, Penn­syl­van­ia: 1813); variously attributed to or .

Keep silence, all created things,
And wait your Maker’s nod!
My soul stands trembling while she sings
The honors of her God.

Life, death, and hell, and worlds unknown
Hang on His firm decree;
He sits on no precarious throne,
No borrows leave to be.

Chained to His throne, a volume lies,
With all the fates of men,
With every angel’s form and size,
Drawn by th’eternal pen.

His providence unfolds the book,
And makes His counsels shine;
Each opening leaf, and every stroke
Fulfills some deep design.

Here He exalts neglected worms
To scepters and a crown;
And there the following page He turns,
And treads the monarch down.

Not Gabriel asks the reason why,
Nor God the reason gives;
Nor dares the favorite angel pry
Between the folded leaves.

My God, I would not long to see
My fate with curious eyes,
What gloomy lines are writ for me,
Or what bright scenes may rise.

In Thy fair book of life and grace,
O may I find my name
Recorded in some humble place,
Beneath my Lord the Lamb!