by Henry Francis Lyte, 1793-1847
the Lord hath builded for Himself
He needs no earthly dome;
eternity His home
you glorious sky His temple stands,
so lofty, bright, and blue,
all lamped with stars, and curtained round
with clouds of every hue
earth is His altar, nature there
her daily tribute pays;
the elements upon Him wait;
the seasons roll His praise
where shall I see Him?
how describe the dread, Eternal One?
His foot-prints are in every place,
Himself is found in none
He called the world, and it arose;
the heavens, and they appeared:
His hand poured forth the mighty deep;
His arm the mountains reared
He sets His foot upon the hills,
and earth beneath Him quakes;
He walks upon the hurricane,
and in the thunder speaks
i search the rounds of space and time,
nor find His semblance there:
grandeur has nothing so sublime,
nor beauty half so fair
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