Great and omnipotent that Power must be,
That wings the whirlwind and directs the storm,
That, by a strong convulsion, severed thee,
And wrought this wondrous chasm in thy form.
Man is a dweller, where, in some past day,
Thy rock-ribbed frame majestically rose;
The river rushes on its new-made way,
And all is life where all was once repose.
Pleased, as I gazed upon thy lofty brow
Where Nature seems her loveliest robes to wear,
I felt that Pride at such a scene must bow,
And own its insignificancy there.
Oh Thou, to whom directing worlds is play,
Thy condescension without bounds must be,
If man, the frail ephemera of a day,
Be graciously regarded still by Thee.
Here, as I ponder on Thy mighty deeds,
And marvel at Thy bounteousness to me,
While wrapt in solemn awe, my bosom bleeds,
Lest recklessly I may have wounded Thee,—
Wounded that Being who is fain to call
The heavy-laden and the wearied home;
The dear Redeemer! He who died that all
Might to his glorious in-gathering come.