Oh, whither shall my troubled Muse encline?
If not the glorious scaffolde of the skies,
Nor highest heaven's resplendent hierarchies,
Where heav'nly soldiours in pure armor shine;
Nor ayer which thy sweete Spirite doth refine,
Nor earth thy precious blood's unworthy prise,
Nor seas which, when thou list, ebbe and arise;
Nor any creature, profane or divine,
Can blaze the flourish of thy tearmelesse praise;
Surreaching farre, by manifold large space,
All divine fabricke of thy sacred hands;
 ... 

Weigh me the fire; or, canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind;
Distinguish all the floods that are
Mixt in the watrie theater;
And tast thou them as saltlesse there,
As in their channell first they were;
Tell me the people that do keep
Within the kingdomes of the deep;
Or fetch me back that cloude againe,
Beshiver'd into seeds of raine;
Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and speares
Of corn, when summer shakes his eares;
Shew me the world of starres, and whence
They noiselesse spill their influence;
This if thou canst, then shew me Him
That rides the glorious Cherubim.

See! through the heavenly arch
With silent stately march
   The starry ranks for ever sweep;
In graduate scale of might
They all are sons of light,
   And all their times and orders keep.

O glorious, countless host,
Which shall I praise the most,
   Your lustrous groups, or course exact ?
Ye on your way sublime
Defy confusing time
   Your light to dim, your path distract.

 ... 
O thou unswerving Will,
The unveiled heavens still
   Show Thee glorious, good, and wise.

 ... 

The Lord descended from above,
And bow'd the Heavens high,
And underneath his Feet he cast
The Darkness of the Sky.

On Cherubim and Seraphim
Full royally he rode,
And on the Wings of mighty Winds
Came flying all abroad.