The Divine

On dizzy altitudes he stands;
Dominions glitter in His hands;
His terrors march in awful bands.

Who knoweth how to count His hosts?
His mornings shine on all the coasts;
His glances pierce the realm of ghosts.

He looks upon the moon as dim;
In vain the starry oceans brim;
They seem but darkling voids to Him.

How then should man, the child of dust,
Lift Edenward a brow of trust
Or vaunt himself as pure and just?

His worth is vile, his strength infirm;
He carries death within the germ;
Behold, he seemeth but a worm.