There is a thread which runs through the world…

from the faintest flap of the moth, to the thunderous clap of the waterfall from the brightest ray of the sunshine, to the darkest shimmering of the night ocean in the painter’s brush, and the cellist’s bow in the quiet repose, in the aching soul

And I will praise Him still, creator of all wonder And I will praise Him still, in the midst of all its calamity

Though I be vexed by imperfection, to Him I owe my affection He still delights in what faint offering we have to give

And I will praise Him still