The heavens are for his curtains spread

The heavens are for his curtains spread, Th' unfathom'd deep he makes his bed; Clouds are his chariot, when he flies On winged storms across the skies.

Angels, whom his own breath inspires, His ministers are flaming fires; And swift as thought their armies move To bear his vengeance, or his love.

The world's foundations by his hand Are pois'd, and shall for ever stand; He binds the ocean in his chain, Lest it should drown the earth again.

When earth was cover'd with the flood, Which high above the mountains stood, He thunder'd, and the ocean fled, Confin'd to its appointed bed.

The swelling billows know their bound, And in their channels walk their round; Yet thence convey'd by secret veins, They spring on hills, and drench the plains.

He bids the crystal fountains flow, And cheer the vallies as they go; Tame heifers there their thirst allay, And for the stream wild asses bray.

From pleasant trees which shade the brink The lark and linnet light to drink; Their songs the lark and linnet raise; And chide our silence in his praise.