To Him Who Is The Life Of Life My Soul I
To him who is the Life of life,
My soul its vows would pay;
He leads the flowery seasons on,
And gives the storm its way.
The winds run backward to their caves
At his divine command,
And the great deep he holds within
The hollow of his hand.
He clothes the grass, he makes the rose
To wear her good attire;
The moon he gives her patient grace,
And all the stars their fire.
He hears the hungry raven’s cry,
And sends her young their food;
And through our evil intimates
His purposes of good.
He stretches out the north; he binds
The tempest in his care;
The mountains can not strike their roots
So deep he is not there.
Hid in the garment of his works,
We feel his presence still
With us, and through us fashioning
The mystery of his will.