HYMN
.
MY
God
!
would
that
,
from
earthly
trammels
free
,
My
thoughts
could
win
their
upward
way
to
thee
,
And
there
a
while
in
lofty
regions
prove
,
The
purifying
glow
of
holy
love
!
The
solemn
dome
of
night
is
o'er
my
head
,
Where
countless
stars
in
grand
array
are
spread
—
Thy
mighty
host
,
that
to
our
wondering
eyes
One
maze
of
glory
is
;
while
sombre
lies
Beneath
its
vasty
span
the
darkened
face
Of
many
a
land
,
where
many
a
motley
race
,
With
all
their
worldly
care
,
in
sleep
are
lapt
.
O
,
might
my
soul
,
in
adoration
rapt
,
Her
high
concentered
thoughts
still
raise
to
thee
,
With
steady
power
!
Alas
,
this
may
not
be
!
My
thoughts
are
twilight
birds
,
in
seasons
rare
,
That
skim
and
rise
,
and
flit
in
nether
air
;
That
wheel
,
and
turn
,
and
cross
,
and
soar
,
and
swoop
,
With
seeming
bootless
speed
,
then
feebly
droop
Their
weary
wings
,
which
may
no
more
sustain
Such
flight
,
and
hie
to
murky
haunts
again
.
My
God
,
who
knowest
the
creature
thou
hast
made
,
Pity
my
weakness
,
nor
as
sin
be
laid
Upon
my
head
,
this
feebleness
of
mind
;
And
if
sublimer
thoughts
I
may
not
bind
,
As
the
abiding
treasure
of
my
heart
—
Inmates
,
who
rarely
from
their
cell
depart
,
Vouchsafe
such
grace
,
that
many
a
transient
notion
May
oft
within
me
kindle
true
devotion
;
And
,
moving
as
a
meteor
of
the
night
,
Be
for
a
passing
,
glorious
moment
bright
,
—
A
moment
,
uttering
in
words
of
fire
,
"
Thou
art
our
Mighty
Lord
,
our
good
and
bounteous
Sire
.
"