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Who marks with kindest care thy daily lot?
Whose arm sustains thee though thou seest it not?
Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways?
Who writes the record of thy fleeting days?
Go, ask the stream that rolls in torrents by,
Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky,
Or of the fields, array'd in garments fair,
Or of the birds that warble in the air.
Or of the mountain-lilies wet with dew,
Or of the trees, and they will tell thee who,—
Then lift thine eyes adoring to his throne,
And bow thy heart to Him, the everlasting One.
"He feedeth the young ravens that cry."
The new-fledg'd ravens leave the nest,
And with a clamorous cry,
Uncertain wing, and ruffled breast,
In broken circles fly.
