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Praise Him, ye mortal choirs below,
Ye birds, whose throats your Maker know,
So exquisitely strung!
Ye flowers! your thousand sweets expand,
Praise the Great Painter—Him whose hand
Your heavenly fragrance flung.
Ye birds, whose throats your Maker know,
So exquisitely strung!
Ye flowers! your thousand sweets expand,
Praise the Great Painter—Him whose hand
Your heavenly fragrance flung.
And praise Him thou, my throbbing breast,
Prepare Him there a sacred rest,
A temple pure and calm;
Till every thought that trembles there
A harmony divine shall share,
A sweet and holy balm!
Prepare Him there a sacred rest,
A temple pure and calm;
Till every thought that trembles there
A harmony divine shall share,
A sweet and holy balm!
