This wondrous world, my God, a book I deem,

Wherein the Author's heavenly glories shine:

The petals of the wayside flowers meseem

Its pages, pencilled o'er by hand divine.

The sun that soars above the eastern deep

Toward the realms celestial beckoneth me;

The glowing orb, which westering sinks to sleep,

Tells of eternal rest and peace with Thee.

Within my breast fair spring's life-laden wind

Kindles new hope in Thine abounding grace;

The gathering gloom of autumn bids me find

Within Thy sheltering arms my hiding place.

The countless stars which gleam athwart the sky,

Speak of Thine eyes which sleep not day nor night;

While at my feet the earth-born flowers reply,

"We live our lowly lives within God's sight."

Grant me, dear Lord, to scan Thy works, until

My heart their soothing ministry doth own.

What though Thy might the flesh with awe instil?

The spirit yearns to Thine all-gracious throne.