1 Scarce can our daring Thought arise
To thy Pavilion in the Skies;
Nor can a mortal Tongue declare
The Bliss, the Joy, the Rapture there.
Nor solitary dost thou reign,
But circled with a glorious Train,
The Sons of God, the Sons of Light,
For ever joying in thy Sight!
2 For thee their silver Harps are strung,
While ever beauteous, ever young,
Th' Angelick Forms their Voices raise,
And thro' Heavn'ns Arch resound they Praise.
The feather'd Souls that swim the Air,
And bath in liquid Ether there;
The Lark, Precentor of their Quire,
Leading them higher still and higher.
3 Listen and learn, th' angelick Notes
Repeating in their warbling Throats:
And e'er to soft Repose they go
They teach them to their Lords below.
On the green Turf, their mossy Nest,
The Ev'ning Anthem swells their Breast
Thus, like thy golden Chain from high,
Thy Praise unites the Earth and Sky.