Who will not bend in holy praise, or bow,
When in deep prayer the list’ning throng unite.
Oh! in this hour, while angels’ harps are swelling,
The rich rejoicing of the upper skies,
While the sweet anthem of the earth is telling
That one crush’d wild flower ’neath the altar lies.
Would that a ray, from that pure shrine descending,
Might pierce the darkness of thy forest kind—
Lighting a pathway that to thee is lending
Thy surest hope the spirit-home to find.