The moonlit fields of waving corn,
That ripening harvests fill—
The bubbling springs where lakes are born,
To man subservient still—
All speak of His unbounded love
Who caused those streams to flow,
Who fed those fields from founts above,
And made the harvest grow.
And wheresoe'er the broad moon's rays
In matchless beauty fall,
They mirror forth to thoughtful gaze
The Hand that fashioned all.
There's not a plant upon the earth,
There's not a tree nor flower,
But bears the stamp of heavenly birth,
The proof of heavenly power.
The very leaf on which you tread
Was wrought with wondrous hand,—
A fragment of a volume dread
That speaks to every land:
A book unchanged from age to age—
The same since time began:
For Nature is a living page
That preaches God to man!
Charles Wilton.