The Hosts of the Sky are Marching
On a night when the wind is blowing,
As I stand on the shore of a lake,
When the clouds above me are growing,
And change and form the wisps of a snake.
I feel a sudden rustle,
I’m no longer in reality,
The clouds begin to hustle,
And the earth below grows misty.
That’s when I know their marching,
The hosts of innumerable size,
They form and start their arching,
As they move across the skies.
Then the God of Glory thunders.
The earth shakes beneath His throne,
And all the population wonders,
What is it they have sown?
The majesty of the sky is old,
Made with a wondrous strength
An awesome wonder to behold,
No man can grasp their length.
Who can measure their endlessness?
Who marked the heavens with a span?
Who could form their vastness?
And hold it in the hollow of His hand?
Oh, for the touch of the Maker’s hand
Many of us on earth do long for,
We stand high upon our castles of sand,
And reach upward to an open door.
A golden door, never closed,
A way through, a way between,
A way to Holiness and He who arose
A way to glory, and things unseen.