Джон Кибл (John Keble)

Septuagesima Sunday

There is a book, who runs may read,
   Which heavenly truth imparts,
And all the lore its scholars need,
   Pure eyes and Christian hearts.

The works of God above, below,
   Within us and around,
Are pages in that book, to show
   How God Himself is found.

The glorious sky embracing all
   Is like the Maker’s love,
Wherewith encompassed, great and small
   In peace and order move.

The Moon above, the Church below,
   A wondrous race they run,
But all their radiance, all their glow,
   Each borrows of its Sun.

The Savour lends the light and heat
   That crowns His holy hill;
The saints, like stars, around His seat
   Perform their courses still.

The saints above are stars in heaven—
   What are the saints on earth?
Like tress they stand whom God has given,
   Our Eden’s happy birth.

Faith is their fixed unswerving root,
   Hope their unfading flower,
Fair deeds of charity their fruit,
   The glory of their bower.

The dew of heaven is like Thy grace,
   It steals in silence down;
But where it lights, this favoured place
   By richest fruits is known.

One Name above all glorious names
   With its ten thousand tongues
The everlasting sea proclaims.
   Echoing angelic songs.

The raging Fire, the roaring Wind,
   Thy boundless power display;
But in the gentler breeze we find
   Thy Spirit’s viewless way.

Two worlds are ours: ’tis only Sin
   Forbids us to descry
The mystic heaven and earth within,
   Plain as the sea and sky.

Thou, who hast given me eyes to see
   And love this sight so fair,
Give me a heart to find out Thee,
   And read Thee everywhere.

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