“All Thy Works Praise Thee”
In this delightful world of ours,
How many people praise the flowers,
As if there were no other things
Round which a finished beauty clings,
All showing by this simple sign
They come of workmanship divine. 'Tis only when the day is done,
And fled the radiance of the sun,
That we may learn to rightly prize
The glory of the starry skies;
'Tis only when his rays decline,
We see the stars that always shine. So now when summer flowers are dead,
And colder skies are overhead,
We find ourselves at leisure
To seek out winter's pleasure.
We wander on the sandy shore,
Where recent storms have strewn it o'er
With twisted wreaths of coralline,
And tiny seaweeds twined between—
All tangled now, confused and torn,
With more than half their beauty shorn,
But yet enough remains to tell
Our Father doeth “all things well.” Or yet again, our steps are bent
To climb the hillside's steep ascent;
And here and there we pause to see
If as of old the place may be
The haunt of fairy cup-moss gray,
And if the dear old mosses stay
And grow in their accustomed way;
Enough for us if we may guess
Some portion of their loveliness,
And take home fern-like fronds in hope
Of aid from friendly microscope.
Or where the trees have scattered down
Their withered leaves and branches brown,
In some damp dingle we may find
The loveliest of the lichen kind,
Small cups with richest scarlet lined. Grant us, our Father, grace to see
How all thy works are praising thee.
— Selected.