There’s not a tint that paints the rose Or decks the lily fair, Or streaks the humblest flower that blows, But God has placed it there. 2 There’s not a star whose twinkling light Illumes the distant earth, And cheers the solemn gloom of night But goodness gave it birth. 3 There’s not a cloud whose dews distill Upon the parching clod, And clothe with verdure vale and hill, That is not sent by God. 4 There’s not a place in earth’s vast round, In ocean deep, or air, Where skill and wisdom are not found; For God is everywhere. 5 Around, beneath, below, above, Wherever space extends, There heaven displays its boundless love, And power with goodness blends. 53 C. M. Praise him in the firmament of his power. Psalm 150:1. Begin my soul the lofty strain, In solemn accents sing A sacred hymn of grateful praise To heaven’s almighty King. 2 Ye curling fountains, as ye roll Your silver waves along, Whisper to all your verdant shores The subject of my song. 3 Retain it long, ye echoing rocks The sacred sound retain, And from your hollow winding caves Return it oft again. 4 Bear it, ye winds, on all your wings, To distant climes away, And round the wide-extended world The lofty theme convey. 5 Take the glad burden of his name, Ye clouds, as you arise, Whether to deck the golden morn Or shade the evening skies. 6 Whilst we, with sacred rapture fired, The great Creator sing, And utter consecrated lays To heaven’s eternal King. 54 C. M. D. The hymn of the seasons. The heavenly spheres to thee, O God, Attune their evening hymn; All-wise, all-holy, thou art praised In song of seraphim. Unnumbered systems, suns, and worlds, Unite to worship thee, While thy majestic greatness fills Space, time, eternity. 2 Nature, a temple worthy thee, Beams with thy light and love; Whose flowers so sweetly bloom below, Whose stars rejoice above; Whose altars are the mountain cliffs That rise along the shore; Whose anthems, the sublime accord Of storm and ocean roar. 3 Her song of gratitude is sung By spring’s awakening hours; Her summer offers at thy shrine Its earliest, loveliest flowers; Her autumn brings its golden fruits, In glorious luxury given; While winter’s silver hights reflect Thy brightness back to heaven. 55 C. H. M. The ineffable glory of God. Since o’er thy footstool here below Such radiant gems are strewn, O, what magnificence must glow, Great God, about thy throne! So brilliant here these drops of light— There the full ocean rolls, how bright!