HYMN OF THE ANGELS.

O Sacred Presence! Life Divine! We rear for thee no gilded shrine— Unfashioned by the hand of Art, Thy temple is the child-like heart. No tearful eye, no bended knee, No servile speech we bring to Thee; For thy great love tunes every voice, And makes each trusting soul rejoice. Then strike your lyres, Ye angel choirs! The sound prolong, O white-robed throng! Till every creature joins the song. We will not mock Thy holy name With titles high, of empty fame, For Thou, with all Thy works and ways, Art far beyond our feeble praise; But freely as the birds that sing, The soul’s spontaneous gift we bring, And like the fragrance of the flowers, We consecrate to Thee our powers. Then strike your lyres, Ye angel choirs! The sound prolong, O white-robed throng! Till every creature joins the song. All souls in circling orbits run, Around Thee as their central sun; And as the planets roll and burn, To Thee, O Lord! for light we turn. Nor Life, nor Death, nor Time, nor Space, Shall rob us of our name or place, But we shall love Thee, and adore Through endless ages—Evermore! Then strike your lyres, Ye angel choirs! The sound prolong, O white-robed throng! Till every creature joins the song.