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When the seedling from its bed
First lifts up its timid head,
Ministry of thine must give

All on which its life can live.

Showers from thee must bid it thrive,
Breath of thine must oft revive;
Light from thee its bloom supplies,-
Left by thee it fades and dies.

Whose, then, when a tree up-grown,
Should its fruit be, but thine own?
And thy glorious heritage
Is its fadeless leaf in age.


THESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good,
Almighty! thine this universal frame,

Thus wondrous fair! Thyself how wondrous then!
Unspeakable! who sittest above these heavens,
To us invisible, or dimly seen

In these thy lowest works: yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing. Ye in heaven!
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol

Him first, him last, him midst, and without end!
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,

Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb, that flies;
And ye five other wandering fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without song; resound
His praise, who out of darkness call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,

And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honor to the world's great Author rise,
Whether to deck with clouds the uncolor'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers;
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.

His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines,
With every plant, in sign of worship wave!
Fountains, and ́ye that warble as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls! ye birds
That, singing, up to heaven's gate ascend,

Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise.

Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep,
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,

To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good: and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark!


In the Cross of Christ I glory!—
Towering o'er the wrecks of time,
All the light of sacred story

Gathers round its head sublime.

When the woes of life o'ertake me,
Hopes deceive, and fears annoy,
Never shall the cross forsake me,
Lo! it glows with peace and joy!

When the sun of bliss is beaming
Light and love upon my way,
From the cross the radiance streaming
Adds more lustre to the day.

Bane and blessing, pain and pleasure,
By the cross are sanctified;

Peace is there that knows no measure,
Joys that through all time abide.

In the Cross of Christ I glory!—
Towering o'er the wrecks of time,
All the light of sacred story

Gathers round its head sublime.


GOD is Love: his mercy brightens
All the path in which we rove;
Bliss he wakes, and wo he lightens,—
God is Wisdom, God is Love.

Chance and change are busy ever,
Man decays, and ages move;
But his mercy waneth never,-
God is Wisdom, God is Love.

Even the hour that darkest seemeth,
Will his changeless goodness prove;
From the mist his brightness streameth,—
God is Wisdom, God is Love.

He with earthly cares entwineth
Hope and comfort from above;
Everywhere his glory shineth,--
God is Wisdom, God is Love.


WHEN Power Divine, in mortal form,
Hush'd with a word the raging storm,
In soothing accents Jesus said,
"Lo, it is I!-be not afraid."

So, when in silence nature sleeps,
And his lone watch the mourner keeps,
One thought shall every pang remove—
Trust, feeble man, thy Maker's love.

Bless'd be the voice that breathes from heaven,
To every heart in sunder riven,

When love, and joy, and hope are fled,

"Lo, it is I!-be not afraid."

When men with fiendlike passions rage,

And foes yet fiercer foes engage,

Bless'd be the voice, though still and small,
That whispers, "God is over all."

God calms the tumult and the storm;
He rules the seraph and the worm:
No creature is by Him forgot,

Of those who know or know him not.

And when the last dread hour shall come,
While shuddering nature waits her doom,
This voice shall call the pious dead—
“Lo, it is I !—be not afraid.”

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