Strophe

Who is it on His Throne, high-seated, So deep in boundless realms of light, Whose measure, space nor time hath meted, Nor e'en eternity; whose might, Supportless, yet itself maintaineth, Floating on pinions of repose; Who, in His mightiness ordaineth What round and in Him changeless flows And what revolves and what is driven Around Him, centre of His plan; The sun of suns, the spirit-leaven Of space; the soul of all we can Conceive, and of the unconceivèd, The heart, the life, the fount, the sea, And source of all things here perceivèd, That from Him spring, that His decree Omnipotent and Mercy flowing And Wisdom from naught did evoke, Ere this full-crownèd palace glowing, The Heaven of Heavens, the darkness broke? Where o'er our eyes our wings extending To veil His dazzling Majesty, 'Mid harmonies to Him ascending, We fall before Him tremblingly And kneel, confused, in awe together. Who is it? Name, or picture then His Being with a Seraph's feather. Or is't beyond your tongue and ken?