He makes the grass the hills adorn,
And clothes the smiling fields with corn;
The beasts with food His hands supply,
And the young ravens when they cry.
What is the creature’s skill or force,
The sprightly man, the warlike horse,
The piercing wit, the active limb?
All are too mean delights for Him.
But saints are lovely in His sight,
He views His children with delight;
He sees their hope, He knows their fear,
And looks, and loves His image there.