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C. M.

The Divine glories above our reason.


How wondrous great, how glorious bright,

Must our Creator be,

Who dwells amidst the dazzling light

Of vast infinity!

Our soaring spirits upwards rise

Toward the celestial throne;

Fain would we see the blessed Three,

And the Almighty One.

Our reason stretches all its wings,

And climbs above the skies;

But still how far beneath thy feet

Our grov'lling reason lies!

[Lord, here we bend our humble souls,

And awfully adore;

For the weak pinions of our mind

Can stretch a thought no more.]

Thy glories infinitely rise

Above our lab'ring tongue;

In vain the highest seraph tries

To form an equal song.

[In humble notes our faith adores

The great mysterious King,

While angels strain their nobler powers,

And sweep the immortal string.]

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