There seems a voice in ev­ery gale,
A tongue in ev­ery flow­er,
Which tells, O Lord, the won­drous tale
Of Thy al­migh­ty pow­er.

The birds, that rise on qui­ver­ing wing,
Proclaim their mak­er’s praise,
And all the ming­ling sounds of spring
To Thee an an­them raise.

Shall I be mute, great God, alone
’Midst na­ture’s loud ac­claim?
Shall not my heart, with an­swer­ing tone,
Breathe forth Thy ho­ly name?

All na­ture’s debt is small to mine;
Nature shall cease to be;
Thou gav­est proof of love di­vine,
Immortal life to me.