Almighty Maker, God! How wondrous is thy name! Thy glories how diffus'd abroad Through the Creation's frame! Nature in every dress Her humble homage pays, And finds a thousand ways t' express Thine undissembled praise. In native white and red The rose and lily stand, And, free from pride, their beauties spread, To show thy skilful hand. The lark mounts up the sky, With unambitious song, And bears her Maker's praise on high Upon her artless tongue. My soul would rise and sing To her Creator too, Fain would my tongue adore my King, And pay the worship due. But pride, that busy sin, Spoils all that I perform; Curs'd pride, that creeps securely in, And swells a haughty worm. Thy glories I abate, Or praise thee with design; Some of the favours I forget, Or think the merit mine. The very songs I frame Are faithless to Thy cause, And steal the honours of Thy Name To build their own applause. Create my soul anew, Else all my worship's vain; This wretched heart will ne'er be true, Until 'tis form'd again. Descend, celestial fire, And seize me from above; Melt me in flames of pure desire, A sacrifice to love. Let joy and worship spend The remnant of my days, And to my God, my soul, ascend, In sweet perfumes of praise. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAINT MAY: A CITY LYRIC by JOSEPH ASHBY-STERRY PSALM 7; UPON WORDS OF CHUSH THE BENJAMITE; AUGUST 14, 1653 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE GLEANING by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN THE LAND OF HOPE-TO-BE by WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE SOMEBODY'S MOTHER by MARY DOW BRINE THE EXILE'S RETURN by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING EPISTLE TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER by ROBERT BURNS THREE EPISTLES TO G. LLOYD ON A PASSAGE FROM HOMER'S ILIAD: 2 by JOHN BYROM |