By MARY HARRISON.
Ye flowers in your wonderful silence,Ye birds with your wonderful sound,The love of my God are declaring;For ye are the language he found.Ye smile to the eye of my spirit,Ye sing to the ear of my soul;Ye waken soft echoes of anthemsWhich over God’s Paradise roll.Ye bloom as ye bloomed once in Eden,Make holy and sacred the sod;Ye sing as you sang when in raptureMan counted you angels of God.By you—common things of the desert—God’s love has this miracle wrought:Ye fill me with exquisite gladness,With worship which silences thought.—London Sunday Magazine.
Ye flowers in your wonderful silence,Ye birds with your wonderful sound,The love of my God are declaring;For ye are the language he found.Ye smile to the eye of my spirit,Ye sing to the ear of my soul;Ye waken soft echoes of anthemsWhich over God’s Paradise roll.Ye bloom as ye bloomed once in Eden,Make holy and sacred the sod;Ye sing as you sang when in raptureMan counted you angels of God.By you—common things of the desert—God’s love has this miracle wrought:Ye fill me with exquisite gladness,With worship which silences thought.—London Sunday Magazine.
Ye flowers in your wonderful silence,Ye birds with your wonderful sound,The love of my God are declaring;For ye are the language he found.
Ye flowers in your wonderful silence,
Ye birds with your wonderful sound,
The love of my God are declaring;
For ye are the language he found.
Ye smile to the eye of my spirit,Ye sing to the ear of my soul;Ye waken soft echoes of anthemsWhich over God’s Paradise roll.
Ye smile to the eye of my spirit,
Ye sing to the ear of my soul;
Ye waken soft echoes of anthems
Which over God’s Paradise roll.
Ye bloom as ye bloomed once in Eden,Make holy and sacred the sod;Ye sing as you sang when in raptureMan counted you angels of God.
Ye bloom as ye bloomed once in Eden,
Make holy and sacred the sod;
Ye sing as you sang when in rapture
Man counted you angels of God.
By you—common things of the desert—God’s love has this miracle wrought:Ye fill me with exquisite gladness,With worship which silences thought.—London Sunday Magazine.
By you—common things of the desert—
God’s love has this miracle wrought:
Ye fill me with exquisite gladness,
With worship which silences thought.
—London Sunday Magazine.