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Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts (1860–1943)

O THOU who hast beneath Thy hand

The dark foundations of the land,—

The motion of whose ordered thought

An instant universe hath wrought,—

Who hast within Thine equal heed

The rolling sun, the ripening seed,

The azure of the speedwell’s eye,

The vast solemnities of sky,—

Who hear’st no less the feeble note

Of one small bird’s awakening throat,

Than that unnamed, tremendous chord

Arcturus sounds before his Lord,—

More sweet to Thee than all acclaim

Of storm and ocean, stars and flame,

In favor more before Thy face

Than pageantry of time and space,

The worship and the service be

Of him Thou madest most like Thee,—

Who in his nostrils hath Thy breath,

Whose spirit is the lord of death!