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The Book of Praise.
Glad was the angel throng
To see His might prevail; And loud they sung a joyful song
This universe to hail,
While yet in youth it stood ; The Maker, too, pronounced it good.
But this fair world shall die,
The creature of a day ; In ashes and in ruins lie,
Its glory passed away:
As when before her birth, Again shall be this mighty earth.
Soon shall the day be o'er
Of yonder brilliant sun ; And he shall set to rise no more,
His race of glory run ;
And soon, alas ! all soon Shall fade the stars, and yon pale moon.
But ever fix'd, the throne
Of the Eternal One Shall stand, when all creation's gone,
Unequalled and alone ;
New worlds to make at will, And His own wise designs fulfil.
John Hunt. 1853.
Not unto us, Almighty Lord,
But to Thyself the glory be ! Created by Thy awful word,
We only live to honour Thee.