O God the teller of tales,
Whose story is already writ,
Forgive me, for I fail
To leave you the telling of it.

O God, the mystical Weaver,
Your fabric far richer than gold,
Forgive this importunate fever;
I even one thread cannot hold.

O God, the celestial Painter,
Whose palette no eye can behold,
Forgive me: my colors are fainter
Than shadow when evening enfold.

O God, the heav’nly Composer,
Your music no less than the skies,
Forgive me my poor sound, no closer
Than silence entombed where it lies.

O God, the Creator of Song,
That sounds in celestial hall,
Forgive me this helping along,
I even one note cannot call.

Thou story, thou fabric, thou canvas, thou tune,
Thou brighter than sun, more mysterious than moon;
Thou epic, thou color, thou music sublime,
I kneel at the feet of the Artist Divine.