Classic Poem

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 folds 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 stretches out the north; he binds
The tempest in his care;
The mountains cannot 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.