Familiar as they are with things sublime—
Shall not the timid stranger here unloose
His sandals, ere he treads on “holy ground,”
And bow in humble worship to his God?
For unto such as do approach with awe
This bright creation of th’ Immortal Mind,
Methinks there comes, amid the deafening roar
Of “many waters,” yet “a still, small voice,”
Which saith, “Ye children of the dust, fear not—
Know that this God, this awful God, is yours!”