Summer: Sunday Morning Poem by John Bowring

Thou art my glory-Thou my song, whose throne
Is built upon the highest heavens-and thence
Rollest the spheres by Thine omnipotence-
Thou art my song, O Lord! and Thou alone!
Thy kingdom is of subject-worlds. The arch
Above us, deck'd with stars as dust, Thou treadest
Beneath Thy feet in Thy resplendent march;
And, in the twinkling of an eye, Thou readest
The eternity that's past, and that to come.
All time concentred in one ray to Thee;
All being is Thy will-all space Thy home;
And all Thine attributes-infinity.


Thou art my song! which from such thoughts as these,
Where our poor reason wanders in the abyss
Of undiscoverable mysteries,
Turns from sublimer, higher worlds, to this;
And in its lowly flowers-and silent meads
And gentle waters-and sweet solitude-
Its valleys and its plains and mountains-reads
That Thou art good-immeasurably good.


Thou art my song! and when Thy name I breathe
Light seems descending from Thy seat-to bear
On wings of hope the trembling worshipper,
To realms beyond the frozen clime of death.
Then do the doubts and fears that overcast
Man's perilous way depart, and rays divine,
Tho' faint and feeble, o'er his path-way shine,
Which point him to a resting-place at last,
Whose very dreams are blessedness-for he
Who has been tost upon a turbulent sea,
Can by the distant shores encouraged be.


Thou art my song! tho' in life's dreary maze,
Sorrow and darkness seem to be my lot,
And 'midst their heavy clouds I trace Thee not,
Yet Thou art there-and gratitude shall raise
Its early voice in reverence. Shifting days
And opening weeks shall, as they flow along,
Leave some bright record of harmonious praise
To Thee who art my glory and my song!


Thy sun awakes and sets-the world grows old
And is renewed again. The seasons flow
Unchanging in their changes-joy and woe
Preside in turns-and then we are enroll'd
Among the slumberers of the grave-but Thou,
To whom past, present, future, are as now,
Art still the same-still watching-still intent
On Thy high purpose-from the labyrinth vast,
Where good and evil, joy and grief are blent
In common fate, to perfect-and present
A future, gather'd from the chequer'd past,
Where bliss shall be predominant-and spread
Wider and wider-till it shall embrace
All the great family of the human race,
And give a crown of light to every head.
O may I join that never-number'd throng,
And sing Thy praise eternal-Thou my song!