The heavens – thinnest parchment made –
On them is writ one simple thing:
The handiwork of God of gods,
The glory of Creator King.
“The king of mountains,
Who treads the wonders of the earth,
What man intends,
And forging dawn in astral flame,
The Lord of Host is called His name.” (Amos 5:13)
The language of the day and night,
And morphemes of the universe,
There is no tongue or ethnic group,
Who can not hear these stars converse.
Their speech is like a plumb-line’s guide,
That stretches over all the land,
If one would dare to bend off-plumb,
He’ll be destroyed by God’s own hand.
The sun, nomadic, from his tent,
Now burst to cast ethereal dawn,
As would a groom from nuptial suite,
An athlete poised, prepared to run.
He rises from the edge of sky,
His tireless race to swiftly speed.
His circuit compasses the earth,
And nothing can escape his heat.
The God who made,
All this displayed,
And burns his law upon our souls,
Must thus deserve –
with no reserve –
All men who live upon earth’s face,
To praise Him for eternal grace.