Thou, Lord, who rear’st the mountain’s height,

And mak’st the cliffs with sunshine bright;

O, grant that we may own Thy hand

No less in every grain of sand!

With forests huge, of dateless time,

Thy will has hung each peak sublime;

But withered leaves beneath the tree

Have tongues that tell as loud of Thee.

Teach us that not a leaf can grow,

Till life from Thee within it flow;

That not a grain of dust can be,

O Fount of being! save by Thee;

That every human word and deed,

Each flash of feeling, will, or creed,

Hath solemn meaning from above,

Begun and ended all in love.