While crocus grow and cattle low
in cottaged countryside --
while waterwheels and fertile fields
have beauty undenied,

I know a place that's dear to me
where splendor towers high,
yet not one songbird builds its nest
in trees that pierce the sky.

This grandeur reaching to the clouds,
removed from pastured peace,
has no less strength than soaring oaks
on which my eye might feast.

Of steel and glass its glory's made,
with grace in ev'ry line.
Who says that only meadows grow
from God's inspired design?