THE WORK DIVINE
by George H. Free
Conceited man, whose empty boast
Is that thy works shall live for aye,
Behold the ruin of the host
Who wrought like thee, but won decay!
Proud Babel's tower, vanished, quite;
The crumbling sphinx and pyramid
In vain attest their builder's might
For e'en their names from us are hid.
No marvel that those ruins stand,
Slow crumbling in decrepit shame;
The wonder is, though wisely planned,
How brief indeed their builder's fame.
How puny are the deeds of man,
When to creation's works compared;
How transitory is their span,
Their plan how weak, when time is bared.
Consider Him whose hand has hung
Those orbs on high, thy steps to lead,
His sparkling stardust broadcast flung,
Like a sower cast his seed;
Who set the bounds for ocean's tide,
Commanded mountains, Stand ye here,
Unrolled the boundless prairies wide,
And fixed the seasons of the year.
Vain creature, hang thy head in shame!
Behold the heaven's vaulted bowl;
There read thy great Creator's fame
Inscribed upon its blazing scroll.
The firmament displays His skill,
Through far-flung space his glories shine.
Ye proud bombastic lips be still
Behold the works of One divine!
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