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O Thou who hast beneath Thy hand
The dark foundations of the land,--
The motion of whose ordered thought
An instant universe hath wrought,--

Who hast within Thine equal heed
The rolling sun, the ripening seed,
The azure of the speedwell’s eye,
The vast solemnities of sky,--

Who hear’st no less the feeble note
Of one small bird’s awakening throat,
Than that unnamed, tremendous chord
Arcturus sounds before his Lord,--

More sweet to Thee than all acclaim
Of storm and ocean, stars and flame,
In favour more before Thy face
Than pageantry of time and space,

The worship and the service be
Of him Thou madest most like Thee,--
Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath,
Whose spirit is the lord of death!