Classic Poem

The glory of the Lord appears,
In heav'n and all the clust'ring spheres,
Which in rotation shine;
The fleecy clouds and colour'd bow,
And arch of vaulted azure show
The handy work divine

Day tells to day—as one recedes,
For early prayer the morrow speeds
In harmony to come;
To night the night succeeding chimes,
Sweet are the numbers and the times
That fill their annual sum.

There is no nation, clime or tongue,
Where their first mattins are not sung,
And in the spirit caught;
There is no language, sound or speech,
But their melodious vespers reach,
And warble to the thought.

The soothing symphanies, they frame,
O'er spacious nature are the same,
Isle, continent or main;
And their sweet notes, as on the wing,
The constancy of God they sing,
To farthest earth pertain.

Amidst their motions he displays
A grand pavilion, for the blaze
And rapture of the sun;
Who sallies forth as from a bride,
Or, as a giant in his pride,
The stated race to run.

From one extreme of heav'n he vaults,
Whence he his topmost height exalts
His fiercer darts to beam;
There's nothing hidden from his heat,
While his vast circuit to compleat,
He makes the far extream.

The law of God is passing pure,
By which such learning I procure,
As shall my soul renew;
His statutes are of endless trust,
And with the wisdom of the just,
The simple mind endue.

The statutes of the Lord are right,
And fill with gladness and delight
The good ingenuous mind;
The current tenour of his laws
Is plain and clear in every clause,
And lightens e'en the blind.

Clean, and most holy from offence,
Is God's religion, and from thence
Eternal and unchang'd;
His faithful judgments are above
All errors, founded by his love,
And in his truth arrang'd.

More precious are they thousand fold,
And more desirable than gold,
Yea than the purest ore;
And with more sweets the heart content,
Than honey, which from heav'n is sent,
Or bees imblossom'd store.

And from the truths that they convey,
I likewise learn the readiest way
To please and serve the Lord;
And in observing of the ties
Which they inforce, there is a prize
Of infinite reward.

Who can his own offences tell,
How oft the busy fiend of hell,
His subtle snare intrudes?
O cleanse me from my wicked works,
And from the secret sin that lurks,
And all my search eludes.

And keep thy servant from the sin
Of gross presumption, lest it win
An empire in my breast;
So should I be defil'd, and fall
Into the blackest crime of all,
Ingratitude profest.

To these my words, in which I couch
My pray'r, and thy blest name avouch,
The pious sighs I heave,
And all the musings of my heart,
Attend, and in the better part,
Do thou from heav'n receive;

O Lord, the strengthner of my soul,
My final comfort, and the goal
Of every course I take;
Behold I ask, I seek, I knock,
Do thou comply, divulge, unlock,
For Jesus Christ his sake.