Ere God had built the mountains, Or raised the fruitful hills; Before He filled the fountains That feed the running rills; In Thee, from everlasting, The wonderful I AM Found pleasures never wasting, And Wisdom is Thy name. When, like a tent to dwell in, He spread the skies abroad, And swathed about the swelling Of ocean’s mighty flood, He wrought by weight and measure; And Thou wast with Him then: Thyself the Father’s pleasure, And Thine, the sons of men. And couldst Thou be delighted With creatures such as we, Who, when we saw Thee, slighted And nailed Thee to a tree? Unfathomable wonder! And mystery divine! The voice that speaks in thunder Says, “Sinner, I am thine!”