Classic Poem

Ye Seraphs wrapt in holy fires,
Who wing th' ethereal sky,
Singing to Harps divinely strung,
" Glory to God on high! "

Blest Spirits who surround his throne,
The grateful tribute pay;
By adoration most sublime,
His sacred will obey.

My soul, awake! to Heav'n aspire,
Chaunt thy Creator's praise;
Be warn'd with energy divine,
And trace his holy ways.

No hecatombs of victims slain,
Or incense he desires;
An heart devoted, free from stain,
Is all his love requires.

Then yield the pure oblation due,
With gratitude sincere;
Present thyself with modest hope,
Unaw'd by servile fear.

Can Men this tribute dare deny,
This off'ring cease to give?
When 'tis alone in God they breathe,
In him they move, and live!

To him who fills the boundless space,
With holy rev'rence bend;
The great dispenser of thy sate,
Protector, Source, and End!