The Book of God

Thy thoughts are here, my God,   Expressed in words divine, The utterance of heavenly lips   In every sacred line. Across the ages they   Have reached us from afar, Than the bright gold more golden they,   Purer than purest star. More durable they stand   Than the eternal hills; Far sweeter and more musical   Than music of earth’s rills. Fairer in their fair hues   Than the fresh flowers of earth, More fragrant than the fragrant climes   Where odors have their birth. Each word of thine a gem   From the celestial mines, A sunbeam from that holy heaven   Where holy sunlight shines. Thine, thine, this book, though given   In man’s poor human speech, Telling of things unseen, unheard,   Beyond all human reach. No strength it craves or needs   From this world’s wisdom vain; No filling up from human wells,   Or sublunary rain. No light from sons of time,   Nor brilliance from its gold; It sparkles with its own glad light,   As in the ages old. A thousand hammers keen,   With fiery force and strain, Brought down on it in rage and hate,   Have struck this gem in vain. Against this sea-swept rock   Ten thousand storms their will Of foam and rage have wildly spent;   It lifts its calm face still. It standeth and will stand,   Without or change or age, The word of majesty and light,   The church’s heritage.