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408 The Book of Praise.
Why leaps the streamlet down the mountain's side. Hastening so swiftly to the vale beneath,
To cheer the shepherd's thirsty flock, or glide Where the hot sun has left a faded wreath,
Or, rippling, aid the music of the grove ?
Its own glad voice replies, that God is Love!
In starry heavens, at the midnight hour, In ever-varying hues at morning's dawn,
In the fair bow athwart the falling shower, In forest, river, lake, rock, hill, and lawn,
One truth is written: all conspire to prove,
What grace of old reveal'd, that God is Love !
Nor less this pulse of health, far glancing eye, And heart so moved with beauty, perfume, song,
This spirit, soaring through a gorgeous sky, Or diving ocean's coral caves among,
Fleeter than darting fish or startled dove ;
All, all declare the same, that God is Love!
Is it a fallen world on which I gaze ?
Am I as deeply fallen as the rest, Yet joys partaking, past my utmost praise,
Instead of wandering forlorn, unblest ? It is as if an unseen spirit strove To grave upon my heart, that God is Love!
Yet wouldst thou see, my soul, this truth display'd In characters which wondering angels read,
And read, adoring ; go, imploring aid
To gaze with faith, behold the Saviour bleed !
Thy God, in human form ! O, what can prove,
If this suffice thee not, that God is Love ? |
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