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MADONNA AND CHILD
By Carlo Dolci (1616-1686)

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PRAISE FOR CREATION AND PROVIDENCE

I sing th' Almighty power of God,
That made the mountains rise,
That spread the flowing seas abroad,
And built the lofty skies.
I sing the wisdom that ordain'd
The sun to rule the day;
The moon shines full at His command,
And all the stars obey.
I sing the goodness of the Lord,
That fill'd the earth with food;
He formed the creatures with His word,
And then pronounced them good.
Lord, how Thy wonders are display'd
Where'er I turn mine eye!
If I survey the ground I tread,
Or gaze upon the sky!
There's not a plant or flower below
But makes Thy glories known:
And clouds arise, and tempests blow,
By order from Thy throne.
Creatures (as numerous as they be)
Are subject to Thy care:
There's not a place where we can flee,
But God is present there.
--Isaac Watts.

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A GENERAL SONG OF PRAISE TO GOD

How glorious is our heavenly King,
Who reigns above the sky!
How shall a child presume to sing
His dreadful majesty?
How great His power is none can tell,
Nor think how large His grace:
Not men below, nor saints that dwell
On high before His face.
Not angels, that stand round the Lord,
Can search His secret will;
But they perform His heavenly word,
And sing His praises still.
Then let me join this holy tram,
And my first offerings bring;
The eternal God will not disdain
To hear an infant sing.
My heart resolves, my tongue obeys,
And angels shall rejoice,
To hear their mighty Maker's praise
Sound from a feeble voice.
--Isaac Watts.

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INNOCENT PLAY

Abroad in the meadows, to see the young lambs
Run sporting about by the side of their dams,
With fleeces so clean and so white;
Or a nest of young doves in a large open cage,
When they play all in love, without anger or rage,
How much we may learn from the sight!
If we had been ducks, we might dabble in mud;
Or dogs, we might play till it ended in blood:
So foul and so fierce are their natures;
But Thomas and William, and such pretty names,
Should be cleanly and harmless as doves or as lambs,
Those lovely, sweet innocent creatures.
Not a thing that we do, nor a word that we say,
Should injure another in jesting or play,
For he's still in earnest that's hurt:
How rude are the boys that throw pebbles and mire;
There's none but a madman will fling about fire,
And tell you, "'T is all but in sport!"
--Isaac Watts.

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