Classic Poem

As, when across a darken'd room
A golden sunbeam strays,
Myriads of tiny motes are seen
Disporting in its rays;

Such, in the dread Eternal's sight,
This universe appears,
With all its million million worlds,
In their revolving spheres!

Ah, then, what thanks, Incarnate Lord.
Do I not owe to Thee,
Who, being in Thyself so high,
Wast made so low for me!

And what must be thy majesty,
Pure Archangelic Queen,
Through whom the Infinite appear'd
Upon this finite scene!

O, thron'd in pow'r and splendour high
Above all human praise,
O Mother of my Lord and God
Through everlasting days!

Pray Him in whom our substance sits
At Deity's right hand,
That I my littleness may feel,
My greatness understand.