Where cypress bows to kiss the river’s gleam,
And sunlight threads the moss in golden strands,
I walk the wildwood, borne on strength supreme—
Christ’s power dwells in these frail, mortal hands.

The heron stands unmoved by wind’s rough play,
The pine holds firm though tempests rake the hill—
So in my soul, a might beyond decay,
A quiet force that bends me to His will.

Through tangled paths where shadows darkly press,
When doubt would root and fear would bid me flee,
I feel the pulse of grace, no less, no less—
Christ’s power dwells, a fire alive in me.

The brook sings on though stones its course defy,
The eagle mounts where mortal sight grows dim—
So too, with Him, my spirit lifts to fly,
His strength my song, my everlasting hymn.