There are a my­ri­ad means, O Lord,
By which we hear and see
The ec­ho of Thy liv­ing word,
The sha­dow thrown by Thee;
Thy glo­ry is be­yond the pow­ers
Of any in­stru­ment of ours.

The bound­less wind is all Thy breadth,
And ev­ery stream a vein;
Time is the heart that beats be­neath
The or­gan of Thy brain,
Which is th’un­bound vast of space
And ev­ery op­en flow­er Thy face.

The world’s arch­es heav’n­ward fly
From pil­lars of the air;
Behold now in the east­ern sky
The great rose win­dow flare,
As day re­veals be­neath the dome
The old fa­mil­iar streets of home.

We have the pow­er to make or mar
This he­ritage and home;
Lord, look not on us as we are
But as we shall be­come,
When we have made on Earth com­plete
Thy king­dom where all king­doms meet.

To Thee, O young and prince­ly Heart,
All liv­ing things re­turn;
We love not them and Thee apart,
For through that love we learn
In them to feel and hear and see
The ra­di­ant cer­tain­ty of Thee.