There cometh o’er the spirit,

With each returning year,

The thought that Thou, the Father,

Art ever to us near;

With hope of life dispelling

The death that winter brought;

And flowers and fruits foretelling,

With fragrant beauty fraught.

’Tis this which calls Thy children

In sweet accord to raise,

Beneath thy blue-domed temple,

One general hymn of praise

To Thee, the ever-living,

The universal King,

Who never ceasest giving

Each good and perfect thing.

The streamlet from the mountain,—

It speaketh, Lord, of Thee,

As from its snow-capped fountain

It rushes to the sea;

The gentle dew descending,

And cloud’s refreshing shower,—

O God, our Heavenly Father,

All, all, proclaim Thy power.