  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!
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