On The Bible Poem by Thomas Odiorne

O sacred Book of knowledge, all divine,
The Bible! richer than the golden mine!
The sun of moral systems, it unfolds
The path of glory to immortal souls.
Nay, 'tis the standard of true taste, the pride
Of letter'd learning, and the critic's guide.
With boldest figures its descriptions glow;
Its gentle tales in softest pathos flow;
The true sublime in diction apt and terse,
Or beauty's image radiates its verse;
Thoughts, there, in loftiest or in simplest dress,
Strike and affect the soul with matchless stress;
Words, there, like glowing coals, a warmth impart,
And strokes from nature shame the strokes of art.
Such charms its little hist'ry pieces wear,
They melt the reader o'er the story there;
Such thoughts its splendid imagery inspires,
Conception kindles into hallow'd fires.
Like vernal beams which vegetate the earth,
While plenteous showers give vigour to her birth;
So the blest Word, receiv'd by faith, imbues,
With life, the dead; with joyful hope endues;
Supplies the soul with ever-during food,
On earth the foretaste of immortal good.
Announce its fame, ye Angels! far and near,
Till the whole race the gladsome sound shall hear!