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GOD moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.
There is a fountain fill'd with blood Drawn from Emmanuel's veins; And sinners, plung'd beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.
Oh! for a closer walk with GOD, A calm and heav'nly frame; A light to shine upon the road That leads me to the Lamb!
God made the country, and man made the town.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know.
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Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavour.
I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
No voice divine the storm allay'd, No light propitious shone; When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, We perish'd, each alone; But I beneath a rougher sea, And whelmed in deeper gulphs than he.
'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the stir Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd; To hear the roar she sends through all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying sound Falls a soft murmur on the uninjur'd ear.
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