O kings of earth, and presidents,
Do you have any notion whence
There blows the wind that moves your mind?
Or whither any bill you’ve signed
Will lead? Or what ten billion waves
And ripples are unleashed in caves
And mountains, slums and palace halls,
When you make your decrees? What walls
Are built or fall? What bridges stand
Or, full of men, collapse? What lands
Live happily and well, or cling
To pleasant scorpions and sing
Of death unwittingly? Do you,
The kings and presidents, see through
Ten thousand days, and know the end
Of your intent, or comprehend
The outcome of your peace, or wars
Or even if your plan is yours?
This is the light of candle one:
God governs everything you’ve done.
You never take him by surprise,
The dark is bright before his eyes.
All kingly ways are in his hands,
And all your deeds fulfill his plans.
And if you make a war on God,
You find that you are but his rod.
(taken from a page on the Desiring God website)
By John Piper. ©2013 Desiring God Foundation. Website: desiringGod.org
How still the morning of the hallow’d day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush’d
The ploughboy’s whistle, and the milkmaid’s song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom’d waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear — the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o’er the upland leas,
The blackbird’s note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O’ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms — the simple song of praise.
by James Grahame
“Hail! Queen of Plants, Pride of Elysian Bow’rs!
How shall we speak thy complicated Pow’rs?
Thou Wond’rous Panacea, to asswage
The Calentures of Youth’s fermenting Rage,
And Animate the freezing Veins of Age.
To Bacchus when our griefs repair for Ease,
The Remedy proves worse than the Disease:
Where Reason we must lose to keep the Round,
And drinking Others Healths, our Own confound:
Whilst TEA, our Sorrows safely to beguile,
Sobriety and Mirth does reconcile:
For to this Nectar we the Blessing owe,
To grow more Wise, as we more chearful grow.
by Nahum Tate, 1700
Like flocks of fowls the colouds aboue,
Furth flies and couers all the sky:
Againe they suddenly remooue,
We wat not where nor reason why:
Bot till obey his holy law,
They poure out rain, sharpe haile, and snaw.
Behald the fearefull thunder crack,
And fierie flauchts sa violent,
Appeares nocht in the cloudis black,
Quhile be the highest they be sent:
The harts of men are dasht with feare,
Sik lights to see, and claps to heare.
by Alexander Hume