He puts forth his hand,

And the mountains are thrilled

To the heart as they stand

In his presence, fulfilled

With his glory that utters his grace upon earth, and her sorrows are stilled.

The moan of her travail

That groans for the light

Till dayspring unravel

The weft of the night,

At the sound of the strings of the music of morning, falls dumb with delight.

He gives forth his word,

And the word that he saith,

Ere well it be heard,

Strikes darkness to death;

For the thought of his heart is the sunrise, and dawn as the sound of his breath.

And the strength of its pulses

That passion makes proud

Confounds and convulses

The depths of the cloud

Of the darkness that heaven was engirt with, divided and rent as a shroud,

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