FIRST CHOIR OF ANGELICALS.
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Praise to the Holiest in the height, In all his words most wonderful; To us his elder race he gave Without the chastisement of pain, The younger son he willed to be Spirit and flesh his parents were; The Eternal blessed his child and armed, To serve as champion in the field To be his vice-roy in the world Upon the frontier, toward the foe, |
And in the depth be praise: Most sure in all his ways! To battle and to win, Without the soil of sin. A marvel in his birth: His home was heaven and earth. And sent him hence afar, Of elemental war. Of matter, and of sense; A resolute defence. |
ANGEL.
We now have passed the gate, and are within
The house of judgment; and whereas on earth
Temples and palaces are formed of parts
Costly and rare, but all material,
So in the world of spirits nought is found,
To mould withal and form a whole,
But what is immaterial; and thus
The smallest portions of this edifice,
Cornice, or frieze, or balustrade, or stair,
The very pavement is made up of life—
Of holy, blessed, and immortal beings,
Who hymn their Maker's praise continually.
SECOND CHOIR OF ANGELICALS.
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Praise to the Holiest in the height, In all his words most wonderful; Woe to thee, man! for he was found And lost his heritage of heaven, Above him now the angry sky, Who once had angels for his friends, O man! a savage kindred they: He scaled the sea-side cave and clomb With now a fear and now a hope, From youth to old, from sire to son, He dreed his penance age by age; Slowly to doff his savage garb, And quickened by the Almighty's breath, And taught by angel-visitings, And learned to call upon his name, A household and a fatherland, Glory to him who from the mire, Elaborated into life |
And in the depth be praise: Most sure in all his ways! A recreant in the fight; And fellowship with light. Around the tempest's din Has but the brutes for kin. To flee that monster brood The giants of the wood. With aids which chance supplied, He lived, and toiled, and died. And step by step began And be again a man. And chastened by his rod, At length he sought his God; And in his faith create A city and a state. In patient length of days, A people to his praise! |
SOUL.
The sound is like the rushing of the wind—
The summer wind—among the lofty pines;
Swelling and dying, echoing round about,
Now here, now distant, wild and beautiful;
While scattered from the branches it has stirred,
Descend ecstatic odors.
THIRD CHOIR OF ANGELICALS.