Classic Poem

It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above;
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! Trembling like a child,
I hear Thy awful voice, alarmed, afraid,
I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.

Lord! What is man? Up to the sun he flies,
Or feebly wanders through earth's vale of dust:
There is he lost 'midst heaven's high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost.
Beneath the stormclouds, on life's raging sea,
Like a poor sailor, by the tempest tossed
In a frail bark, the sport of destiny,
He sleeps, and dashes on the rocky coast.

Thou breathest, and the obedient storm is still.
Thou speakest, — silent the submissive wave;
Man's shattered ship the rushing waters fill,
And the hushed billows roll across his grave.
Sourceless and endless God! Compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy, momentary dream,
And Time, when viewed through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning's golden beam.