“LORD! WHAT IS MAN THAT THOU ART MINDFUL OF HIM!”

Panting climbers to some barren height; Eager chasers of some phantom light; Emmets piling wayside domes of clay, That, crushed to dust, the whirlwind sweeps away; Toilers vain, O Lord, are we. Fluttering night-birds dazzled by the day; Wayworn travellers who have lost their way; Miners groping slowly in the gloom; Children sobbing round a mother’s tomb; Blind and helpless, Lord, are we. Flow’rets drooping in the noon-tide sun; Autumn leaves descending one by one; Bubbles dancing on life’s foaming wave; Shadowy spirits hurrying to the grave; Frail and fleeting, Lord, are we. Trembling sparklets of immortal fire; Infant songsters ’mid an angel choir; Tiny parts of one complex machine Guided by an architect unseen. None unnoticed, Lord, by Thee. Dewdrops glistening in a radiant love; Diamond sand-grains registered above; Separate nurslings of a Father’s care, That gently numbers every silken hair, Weak and faithless though we be. William Selwyn. January 1886.