Bow down Thine ear, Almighty One!
Though from earth's vale our pray'rs ascend,
Still they may reach Thy heav'nly throne,
And with the praise of seraphs blend.
For Thou, though great, art gracious, Lord!
And when Devotion tunes her song,
The hallowed thought, the humble word,
To Thee upsoar, to Thee belong.
The incense of a pious breast,
Lowly and reverently paid,
Is more acceptable and blest
Than passion's fire, or pomp's parade.
For what are hours,-and what are all
The tributes of man's praise and prayer?
Mere sparkles of a waterfall
That melt into the viewless air.
But if Thy sun of favour shine
Upon the waterdrop-a ray
Of beauty and of light divine
Gilds it, e'en when it dies away.