The Gospel.
1 Mark the soft falling snow
And the diffusive rain!
To heaven, from whence it fell,
It turns not back again;
Till, watering earth
Through every pore,
It calls forth all
Her secret store.
2 Arrayed in beauteous green,
The hills and valleys shine,
And man and beast are fed
By providence divine:
The harvest bows
Its golden ears,
The copious seed
Of future years.
3 "So," saith the God of grace,
"My gospel shall descend,
Almighty to effect
The purpose I intend;
Millions of souls
Shall feel its power,
And bear it down
To millions more."