The dust of earth He measures out,
He numbers all the stars of space,
His mighty scales the mountains weigh;
But what can weigh His grace?

His fingers spread the heavens forth,
He cups the seas within His hand;
But who His mercies can compute;
Unnumbered as the sand?

And when men's measured thread is spun,
His finished tale of days is told,
When all earth's numbered years are done
And Time itself grows old,

Then shall God's long eternities
Their unmarked course have yet to run,
And His uncounted eon-hours
Be only just begun.

Annie Johnson Flint