Classic Poem

Not only in the hush of mountain lands,
And on the storms which shroud the boundless deep,
Does Nature's God His awful vigil keep.
Here, in this church, though raised by human hands,
Though in the traffic-crowded street it stands,
God's throne is set; and while men work or sleep,
He wakes and listens to the hearts that weep,
And in His love makes straight life's tangled strands.

New generations come and pass away,
They pour their anguish into God's kind ear,
They gaze up mutely towards His unseen face;
And, compassed with His mercies day by day,
They stand unshaken, while this earthly sphere
Rolls through the dark infinity of space.