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The storm is up!--along the sky
Swiftly the ebon rack is driven;
And look! yon curling cloud floats nigh,
Charged with the panoply of heaven:
It rends, and gath'ring to a heap,
Of angry billows takes the form;
How troubled is that upper deep!
God! thou art awful in thy storm.


'Tis passed--and see! o'er fields again
Sunbeams their laughing light unfold;
On tower and tree the sparkling rain
Drops like a shower of molten gold;
On yonder hill-top rests the bow,
The air is redolent of balm;
How bright is all above, below!
God! thou art glorious in thy calm.


So, when the tempest shrouds my skies,
And grief holds empire in my soul;
I see the desolation rise,
The waves already o'er me roll;
Thou speak'st, and like a tender sire
Thou dost thy child's frail fears reprove;
Lofty art thou when storms retire;
God! thou art dearer in thy love.