My faith is larger than the hills,
So when the hills decay,
My faith must take the purple wheel
To show the Sun the way.
‘T is first he steps upon the vane
And then upon the hill;
And then abroad the world he goes
To do his golden will.
And if his yellow feet should miss,
The birds would not arise,
The flowers would slumber on their stems,—
No bells have Paradise.
How dare I therefore stint a faith
On which so vast depends,
Lest Firmament should fail for me—
The rivet in the bands.
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