Thou, Lord, who rear’st the mountain’s height,
And mak’st the cliffs with sunshine bright;
O, grant that we may own Thy hand
No less in every grain of sand!

With forests huge, of dateless time,
Thy will has hung each peak sublime;
But withered leaves beneath the tree
Have tongues that tell as loud of Thee.

Teach us that not a leaf can grow,
Till life from Thee within it flow;
That not a grain of dust can be,
O Fount of being! save by Thee;

That every human word and deed,
Each flash of feeling, will, or creed,
Hath solemn meaning from above,
Begun and ended all in love.