Are ye not much better than they?

The twig sprouteth,
The moth outeth,
The plant springeth,
The bird singeth:
Tho’ little we sing to-day
Yet are we better than they;
Tho’ growing with scarce a showing,
Yet, please God, we are growing.

The twig teacheth,
The moth preacheth,
The plant vaunteth,
The bird chanteth,
God’s mercy overflowing
Merciful past man’s knowing.
Please God to keep us growing
Till the awful day of mowing.