 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
THE BOOK OF PRIVATE PRAISE.
I thank Thee, sweetest Lord, that I
Am wonderfully made,
Although Thou art so very high
And we do quickly fade;
That I was greatly clothed by Thee
Within this fearful dress,
A Body beautiful to see—
Fair in its fallenness.
Am wonderfully made,
Although Thou art so very high
And we do quickly fade;
That I was greatly clothed by Thee
Within this fearful dress,
A Body beautiful to see—
Fair in its fallenness.
I thank Thee for these god-like Eyes
Which wander through all Space,
And entertain the land and skies
In their small dwelling-place;
And yet behold the tiniest thing
Which has a moment's gleam,
The dust upon the insect's wing,
The dewdrop in the beam.
Which wander through all Space,
And entertain the land and skies
In their small dwelling-place;
And yet behold the tiniest thing
Which has a moment's gleam,
The dust upon the insect's wing,
The dewdrop in the beam.
I thank Thee for this awful Ear
Which could not ever hark,
If Thou was not Divinely near
Interpreting the dark,
And giving silences a sound
Of fellowship, to greet
Deaf pilgrims on earth's holy ground
Which echoes back Thy feet.
Which could not ever hark,
If Thou was not Divinely near
Interpreting the dark,
And giving silences a sound
Of fellowship, to greet
Deaf pilgrims on earth's holy ground
Which echoes back Thy feet.
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I thank Thee for this wondrous Mouth,
That takes the print of prayer,
And carries forth from north to south
Sweet music as Thy sayer;
A portal for Thy praises fit
And filled by these alone,
And where Thou dost delight to sit
As on a kingly throne.
That takes the print of prayer,
And carries forth from north to south
Sweet music as Thy sayer;
A portal for Thy praises fit
And filled by these alone,
And where Thou dost delight to sit
As on a kingly throne.
I thank Thee for this cunning Hand
A masterpiece of skill,
Which moulds a cherry stone or land
Alike to its great will;
And wields the sword that fashions men
To yet Diviner things,
And conquers earth with plough and pen
Or harps on golden strings.
A masterpiece of skill,
Which moulds a cherry stone or land
Alike to its great will;
And wields the sword that fashions men
To yet Diviner things,
And conquers earth with plough and pen
Or harps on golden strings.
I thank Thee for these willing Feet
That bear the temple up,
Which Thy pure presence makes so meet
And sacred where to sup;
That more than with colossus stride
Do bridge the boundless globe,
And feel on every shore and tide
The flashing of Thy robe.
That bear the temple up,
Which Thy pure presence makes so meet
And sacred where to sup;
That more than with colossus stride
Do bridge the boundless globe,
And feel on every shore and tide
The flashing of Thy robe.
I thank Thee for this royal Mind
Which rises in each fall,
And looks before and looks behind
Serenely weighing all;
Which metes its purple to the mount—
Its passion to the sky,
And drinks for ever from the fount
Of Thy eternity.
Which rises in each fall,
And looks before and looks behind
Serenely weighing all;
Which metes its purple to the mount—
Its passion to the sky,
And drinks for ever from the fount
Of Thy eternity.
I thank Thee for this little Heart,
Which needs Thy constant fire
To keep it holy and apart
With virginal desire;
Which, though so often shut in shade,
For nothing mean was meant,
And is of every creature made
Thy favourite instrument.
Which needs Thy constant fire
To keep it holy and apart
With virginal desire;
Which, though so often shut in shade,
For nothing mean was meant,
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Thy favourite instrument.
I thank Thee for this iron Will,
A ray of Godhead's dower,
Which freely chooses good from ill,
And breathes almighty power;
Which is the master of its fate,
No toy of idle wrath,
And loves to lay its sovereign state
A carpet for Thy path.
A ray of Godhead's dower,
Which freely chooses good from ill,
And breathes almighty power;
Which is the master of its fate,
No toy of idle wrath,
And loves to lay its sovereign state
A carpet for Thy path.
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