Pavilioned in splendor, and girded with praise.
Oh, tell of his might, oh, sing of his grace,
Whose robe is the light, whose canopy space:
His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form,
And dark is his path on the wings of the storm.”
Here are majesty and beauty of thought, flawless phraseology, and musical numbers. No editor has found excuse to alter or amend it.
Even Isaac Watts, who boasted his freedom from literary trammels and who illustrated that freedom all too often and too perversely, proved his latent poetic powers in the noble poetry of
“Our God, our Help in ages past,
Our Hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,