It Kills Me To Be Time's Eunuch

Glory Be To God For Dappled Things- For Skies Of Couple-colour As A Brinded Cow; For Rose-moles All In Stipple Upon Trout That Swim; Fresh-firecoal Chestnut-falls; Finches' Wings; Landscape Plotted And Pieced-fold, Fallow, And Plough; And áll Trádes, Their Gear And Tackle And Trim. All Things Counter, Original, Spare, Strange; Whatever Is Fickle, Freckled (who Knows How?) With Swift, Slow; Sweet, Sour; Adazzle, Dim; He Fathers-forth Whose Beauty Is Past Change: Praise Him.

When A Man Is In God's Grace And Free From Mortal Sin, Then Everything That He Does, So Long As There Is No Sin In It, Gives God Glory And What Does Not Give Him Glory Has Some, However Little, Sin In It. It Is Not Only Prayer That Gives God Glory But Work. Smiting On An Anvil, Sawing A Beam, Whitewashing A Wall, Driving Horses, Sweeping, Scouring, Everything Gives God Some Glory If Being In His Grace You Do It As Your Duty.

What I Do Is Me, For That I Came.

Lovely The Woods, Waters, Meadows, Combes, Vales, All The Air Things Wear That Build This World Of Wales.

To Lift Up The Hands In Prayer Gives God Glory, But A Man With A Dungfork In His Hand, A Woman With A Slop Pail, Give Him Glory, Too. God Is So Great That All Things Give Him Glory If You Mean That They Should.