There cometh o’er the spirit,
With each returning year,
The thought that Thou, the Father,
Art ever to us near;
With hope of life dispelling
The death that winter brought;
And flowers and fruits foretelling,
With fragrant beauty fraught.

’Tis this which calls Thy children
In sweet accord to raise,
Beneath thy blue-domed temple,
One general hymn of praise
To Thee, the ever-living,
The universal King,
Who never ceasest giving
Each good and perfect thing.

The streamlet from the mountain,—
It speaketh, Lord, of Thee,
As from its snow-capped fountain
It rushes to the sea;
The gentle dew descending,
And cloud’s refreshing shower,—
O God, our Heavenly Father,
All, all, proclaim Thy power.