To Thee whose eye all na­ture owns,
Who hurl­est dy­nasts from their thrones,
And lift­est those of low es­tate
We sing, with her men con­se­crate!

Yea, Great and Good, Thee, Thee, we hail,
Who shakes the strong, who shields the frail,
Who had not shaped such souls as we
If ten­der mer­cy lacked in Thee!

Though times be when the mor­tal moan
Seems un­as­cend­ing to Thy throne,
Though se­ers do not as yet ex­plain
Why suf­fer­ing sobs to Thee in vain;

We hold that Thy un­scant­ed scope
Affords a food for fi­nal hope,
That mild-eyed Pre­sci­ence pon­ders nigh
Life’s loom, to lull it by-and-by.

Therefore we choir to high­est height
The lov­ing will, the kindl­y might
That ba­lanc­es the vast for weal,
That purg­es us by wounds to heal.

The sys­temed suns the skies en­scroll
Obey Thee in their rhyth­mic roll,
Ride ra­di­ant­ly at Thy com­mand,
Are dar­kened by Thy mas­ter hand!

And these pale pant­ing mul­ti­tudes
Seen surg­ing here, their moils, their moods,
All shall ful­fill their joy in Thee,
In Thee abide eter­nal­ly!

Exultant ad­or­ation give
To Thee, through whom all liv­ing live,
To Thee, in whom all dy­ing die,
Whose means the end shall jus­ti­fy!