That passing storms have only fann’d the fire
Which pierced them still with its triumphal spire,
I bless thee, O my God!
Now art thou calling me in every gale,
Each sound and token of the dying day;
Thou leav’st me not—though early life grows pale,
I am not darkly sinking to decay;
But, hour by hour, my soul’s dissolving shroud
Melts off to radiance, as a silvery cloud.
I bless thee, O my God!