Everywhere, everywhere,

A tale is told to me—

It is told in the sunny air,

It is told on the sparkling sea;

It is told in the forest brakes,

It is told on the purple hills,

By the silent mountain lakes,

By the singing and leaping rills.

In the ancient gardens grand,

With their old-world flowers aglow,

Where the stately cedars stand,

And the sweet limes all a-row.

In the meadows that stretch away

As a sea of golden green,

With hedges of sweet white may

And the reedy brooks between.

Where I wander, and run, and rest,

The tale is told to me,

The sweetest tale and the best

Of all the tales that be.

* * * *

The tale is the tale of Jesus—

It is told in Heaven above,

On the sea and the moors and the mountains,

In language of all the peoples,

The speech of love.

The morning star and the dayspring,

The sun and the cloud and the shower,

The grass and the rose and the cedar,

His glory and love are telling

From hour to hour.

The birds in the greenwood singing,

The sea that is deep and wide,

The sheep in the folds of the mountains,

The corn in the golden valleys,

And all beside.

All round me the glorious pictures

Of Him who has made them fair;

Through the long bright day I can see Him,

And I fear not the silent darkness,

For He is there.