My quickened sense can only plod.
Imagination waves its rod,
My spirit burns with lightning splendor,
Emotive faith tastes the bread of God.
As moves the wind on sightless wings,
Nor shadow o'er the landscape flings,
While seas to chafe of foam are beaten,
And plectrum sweeps all the forest strings;
So through the world doth Spirit move,
And presence by His working prove,—
A mystery of might and music,
A lonelihood of eternal love.