Every hour that flits so slowly,
Has its task to do or bear;
Luminous the crown, and holy,
If thou set each gem with care.
Do not linger with regretting,
Or for passing hours despond!
Nor, thy daily toil forgetting,
Look too eagerly beyond.
Hours are golden links, God’s token,
Reaching Heaven; one by one
Take them, lest the chain be broken
Ere the pilgrimage be done.
GOD SEEN IN HIS WORKS.
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.
At early dawn, there’s not a gale
Across the landscape driven,
And not a breeze that sweeps the vale,
That is not sent by Heaven.
There’s not, of grass, a single blade,
Or leaf of loveliest green,
Where heavenly skill is not displayed,
And heavenly wisdom seen.
There’s not a tempest, dark and dread,
Or storm that rends the air,
Or blast that sweeps the ocean’s bed,
But God’s own voice is there.
Around,—beneath,—below,—above,—
Wherever space extends,
There God displays His boundless love,
And power with mercy blends.