Last eve, along this still and silent sky,
The thunder-quivered Spirit of the Cloud
Launched his pale, awful arrows - every eye
Shrank from the fiery terrors, and the proud
Felt as the meek, while, rolling long and loud,
To dust the voice of the Invisible came-
That wordless voice at which the soul is bowed,
And sacred horror thrills the pulseless frame!
Then, then, we see, we feel, the LONELY NAME
Writ on the holy darkness - Deity
Sweeps the lit gloom on wings of cloud-born flame,
While all the echoes of the spheres reply!
The winds are silent - the mute deeps adore-
And Nature, shuddering, learns the Thunder's lore!
Rev. John Johns C 1825
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