They Are The Works Of His Hands

They Are The Works Of His Hands long poem

Photo by Jocey K

“How glorious and how perfect
Art the works the Lord hath done”
For upon nothingness, He formed the earth
When nothing that breathes upon the vast universe lived
He made all things alive by His breath of life
From the little tadpole to the great whale
in the depth of the waters, doth the Lord made.

“How glorious and how perfect
Art the works the Lord hath done.”
Upon the vast endless space
where the universe cosmos display;
the thousands star in the firmament
twinkling upon the dark night,
are the wonders of His Word.

“How glorious, how perfect,
art the works of His hands.”
Thus, I will raise my voice high in singing,
From the Everglade of the Amazon over the rolling
billows of the Oceans; to the Evergreen of the
Congo Rain belt: to the southern Asian rain forest,
all swaying and raging tempestuously in worship
to the Lord who hath done all things perfectly.

From the Alps ranges to the Everest Peak,
I see the awesomeness and beauty of God’s
greatness, spreading into the Himalaya’s crest;
From the Sierra Nevada Ranges to the Appalachia,
the power of God transcends: through the Gullies
and canyons, to the coastal plains of the many seas.
“How glorious, how perfect art the works of the Lord.”

The inconsequential troublesome gnats,
To the great beast of the field whose roar
trembles the jungle; the little fluttering
harmless dove, to the soaring powerful eagle,
are all marvels of the Lord perfect creation.
I can’t help but sing continuously,
“How glorious, how perfect, art the works of the Lord.”

But of all He hath done, I am the most
uniquely and beautifully made.
So precious and gracious he doth made me.
His strength doth He bestow on me to have
dominion and power over all that he hath made.
How could I pause in my praises on to Him,
“Who hath done all things perfect and glorious.”

I am the most tender and weakest of His creations.
Thus, His Spirit lives in me; hovers over me,
strength to my weak state: reviving my soul.
He restores my estate; empowers my hands,
and bears me through this fitful voyage of life,
over the snares of my adversaries; hence, I’ll sing:
“How glorious, how perfect art the works of the Lord.”

As I mourn the passing on of a loved one
and weeps on account of the wickedness of man,
He takes me into the hollow of His arm;
He is a comfort to my weary soul,
as He restores my broken spirit with His peace.
Thus, my joy doth He fulfills: For there’s none that’s
“so glorious and perfect in works, as the Lord.”

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2 Comments on "They Are The Works Of His Hands"

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Hello, David Bokolo.

“They Are The Works Of His Hands”
I found this poem a very special, its one of your best poems there is a depth of creation and its beauty, understanding ways the Lord created you in his image. There are feelings, emotions through and through.

This is the poem that I vote as your best!

Thank you,


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