He breathes and lives and moves along
The line of his allotted span,
Equipped with reason for a guide,
By far the highest part of man.
He cannot say from whence he came:
His Maker did no message send;
He cannot tell where he may be
At his inevitable end.
His life is more than can be seen;
Upon the beauteous flower-decked ground,
A deeper meaning hidden lies,
Which mortal man has never found.
In God's good time he will succeed
The signs of Nature to define,
With clearer vision then behold
And realise the plan Divine.
The beauteous earth gives forth her fruit
When harvest suns preside above;
The bloom of flowers, and singing birds
Proclaim to man a God of Love.
He feels the wondrous power of love,
Which, caught and held by reason's sway,
Will raise him to perfection's height
And bring about the perfect day.
Meanwhile 'mid sickness, pain and death,
With gleams of pleasure here and there,
He works: sometimes his load seems light,
And sometimes more than he can bear.
Yet through it all his faith holds firm,
He walks according to his light,
To God and mankind ever true
In brightest day and darkest night.