Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
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SING aloud! His praise rehearse | |
Who hath made the universe. | |
He the boundless heavens has spread, | |
All the vital orbs has kned, 1 | |
He that on Olympus high | 5 |
Tends his flocks with watchful eye, | |
And this eye 2 hath multiplied | |
’Midst each flock 3 for to reside. | |
Thus, as round about they stray, | |
Toucheth 4 each with outstretched ray; | 10 |
Nimble they hold on their way, | |
Shaping out their night and day. | |
Summer, winter, autumn, spring, | |
Their inclinèd axes bring. | |
Never slack they; none respires, | 15 |
Dancing round their central fires. | |
In due order as they move, | |
Echoes sweet be gently drove | |
Thorough heaven’s vast hollowness, | |
Which unto all corners press: | 20 |
Fills the listening sailers’ ears | |
Riding on the wandering spheres: | |
Neither speech nor language is | |
Where their voice is not transmiss. | |
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God is good, is wise, is strong, | 25 |
Witness all the creature throng, | |
Is confessed by every tongue; | |
All things back 5 from whence they sprung, | |
As the thankful rivers pay | |
What they borrowed of the sea. | 30 |
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Now myself I do resign: | |
Take me whole: I all am Thine. | |
Save me, God, from self-desire,— | |
Death’s pit, dark hell’s raging fire— | |
Envy, hatred, vengeance, ire: | 35 |
Let not lust my soul bemire. | |
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Quit from these, Thy praise I’ll sing, | |
Loudly sweep the trembling string. | |
Bear a part, O Wisdom’s sons, | |
Freed from vain religions! | 40 |
Lo, from far, I you salute, | |
Sweetly warbling on my lute— | |
India, Egypt, Araby, | |
Asia, Greece, and Tartary, | |
Carmel-tracts, and Lebanon, | 45 |
With the Mountains of the Moon, | |
From whence muddy Nile doth run, | |
Or wherever else you won: 6 | |
Breathing in one vital air, | |
One we are, though distant far. | 50 |
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Rise at once, let’s sacrifice; | |
Odours sweet perfume the skies; | |
See how heavenly lightning fires | |
Hearts inflamed with high aspires! | |
All the substance of our souls | 55 |
Up in clouds of incense rolls. | |
Leave we nothing to ourselves | |
Save a voice—what need we else!— | |
Or an hand to wear and tire | |
On the thankful lute or lyre! | 60 |
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Sing aloud—His praise rehearse | |
Who hath made the universe. | |