The Book
Eternal
God!
Maker
of
all
That
have
lived
here
since
the
man's
fall:
The
Rock
of
Ages!
in
whose
shade
They
live
unseen,
when
here
they
fade;
Thou
knew'st
this
paper
when
it
was
Mere
seed,
and
after
that
but
grass;
Before
'twas
dressed
or
spun,
and
when
Made
linen,
who
did
wear
it
then:
What
were
their
lives,
their
thoughts,
and
deeds,
Whether
good
corn
or
fruitless
weeds.
Thou
knew'st
this
tree
when
a
green
shade
Covered
it,
since
a
cover
made,
And
where
it
flourished,
grew,
and
spread,
As
if
it
never
should
be
dead.
Thou
knew'st
this
harmless
beast
when
he
Did
live
and
feed
by
Thy
decree
On
each
green
thing;
then
slept
—
well
fed
—
Clothed
with
this
skin
which
now
lies
spread
A
covering
o'er
this
aged
book;
Which
makes
me
wisely
weep,
and
look
On
my
own
dust;
mere
dust
it
is,
But
not
so
dry
and
clean
as
this.
Thou
knew'st
and
saw'st
them
all,
and
though
Now
scattered
thus,
dost
know
them
so.
O
knowing,
glorious
Spirit!
when
Thou
shalt
restore
trees,
beasts,
and
men,
When
Thou
shalt
make
all
new
again,
Destroying
only
death
and
pain,
Give
him
amongst
Thy
works
a
place
Who
in
them
loved
and
sought
Thy
face!
