Going, going, all the glory growing,
See it stir and flutter; that is singing, hark!
Singing in the caverns of the primal dark.
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
What is in the making, what immortal plan
Draws to its unfolding? 'Tis the Soul of man.
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
See it mount and hover, singing as it goes,
Battling with the darkness, nourished by its woes;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
The bale-fires of midnight glaring in its eyes,
Past the phantom shadows see it rush and rise;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
The supernal morning on its dewy wings,
Soaring and scorning the lust of earthy things;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
The beatific noontide on its eager breast
Springing and singing to its halcyon rest;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
In its starry vesture not a vestige of the sod,
Winging still and singing to the heart of God.
_Going, going, all the glory growing._