And whatsoever spirits be
Of lesser honour, less degree,
To Thee, in heavenly lays,
They sing loud anthems of immortal praise:
Still Holy, Holy, Holy Lord of Hosts, they cry;
This is their business, this their sole employ,
And thus they spend their long and blessed eternity.
2
The streams of Thy unbounded glory reach;
Beyond the straits of scanty time and place,
Beyond the ebbs and flows of matter's narrow seas
They reach, and fill the ocean of eternity and space.
Infused like some vast mighty soul,
Thou dost inform and actuate this spacious whole;
Thy unseen hand does the well-jointed frame sustain,
Which else would to its primitive nothing shrink again.
But most Thou dost Thy majesty display
In the bright realms of everlasting day;
There is Thy residence, there dost Thou reign,
There on a state of dazzling lustre sit,
There shine in robes of pure refined light;
Where sun's coarse rays are but a foil and stain,
And refuse stars the sweepings of Thy glorious train.
3
Huge colonies of blessed inhabitants,
Which death through countless ages has transplanted hence,
Now on Thy throne for ever wait,
And fill the large retinue of Thy heavenly state.
There reverend prophets stand, a pompous goodly show,
Of old Thy envoys extraordinary here,
Who brought Thy sacred embassies of peace and war,
That, to the obedient, this, the rebel world below.
By them, the mighty twelve have their abode,
Companions once of the incarnate suffering God,
