by Amy Charmichael 1867-1951
O praise the Lord, for it is good
And pleasant and a joyful thing
To lift the heart, as all men should,
who have so dear a Lord to sing.
The number of the stars He tells,
And calls each star by his own name;
No two of all His flow’ry bells
Or leaves or grasses are the same.
So individual is His thought
For all of us, did one let go
The hand of Joy, and, sore distraught,
Forget to sing, His heart would know.
From rainbow did a color float,
Or did a shining sun burn dim,
That were far less for Him to note
Than dumbness of a child to Him.
O save from that! Let grateful song
And jubilance of melody,
And love merry-makings throng
The road that leads us home to Thee.
