Friday, January 25, 2013

An old Song

The Lord, our God, is clothed with might,
The winds and waves obey his will;
He speaks, and in the shining height
The sun and rolling worlds stand still.
Rebel ye waves, and o'er the land
With threatening aspect foam and roar,
The Lord hath spoken his command,
That breaks your rage upon the shore.
Ye winds of night, your force combine-
Without his Holy High behest
You shall not in a mountain pine
Disturb the little swallows nest.
His voice sublime is heard afar;
In distant peals it fades and dies;
He binds the cyclone to his car
And sweeps the howling murky skies.
Great God! how infinite art Thou,
What weak and worthless worms are we,
Let all the race of creatures bow
And seek salvation now from Thee.
Eternity, with all its years,
Stands ever-present to Thy view,
To Thee there's nothing old appears
Great God! there can be nothing new.
Our lives through varied scenes are drawn,
And vexed with mean and trifling cares;
While Thine eternal thought moves on
Thy fixed and undisturbed affairs.
Henry Kirk White.

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