Blind

SHOW me your God the doubter cries. I point him out the smiling skies; I show him all the woodland greens; I show him peaceful sylvan scenes; I show him winter snows and frost; I show him waters tempest-tossed; I show him hills rock-ribbed and strong; I bid him hear the thrush's song; I show him flowers in the close The lily, violet and rose; I show him rivers, babbling streams; I show him youthful hopes and dreams; I show him stars, the moon, the sun; I show him deeds of kindness done; I show him joy, I show him care, And still he holds his doubting air, And faithless goes his way, for he Is blind of soul, and cannot see!