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O canyon, grand and wild and free!
You've got a lariat on me.
My soul is bronco-busted, too,
My hat is off. I bow to you,
Almighty Hand, who cut this brand
That bronco souls can understand.


I gaze in awe and silence here;
I want to laugh, I find a tear
That irrigates the soul I feel.
O Mother Nature, I would kneel
And clasp and kiss thy mighty hand
And worship in this temple grand.


What's that you say, you silly dude?
Such sentiments are weak and crude?
God! Yes, to brainless things like you,
Whose soul no greatness could imbue,
To see, or feel, or understand
God's mighty hand.


You go to Europe, do you not?
Because you worship God, I wot--
Yes, fashion's god, a foolish dame,
And yet you love her just the same,
And bow and worship at her shrine--
How different this God of mine!


Almighty scar on mountain crest!
My soul seems waking from the tomb,
And I, a mite on Nature's breast,
I never knew, I never guessed,
But now I know what is, is best,
And this is God's own anteroom.


O Mother Nature, hold my hand
And steady me a little while,
That I may feel and understand
This awe-inspiring sight so grand,
God's greatest, most impressive brand
Clean-cut, and deeper than a mile.


And now I see the lightning flash,
I hear the thunder roll and crash,
While echoes through the canyon dash
'Mid heaven's tears.
O Mother Nature, hold me tight
While fall the shadows of the night;
My trembling soul is all afright
With holy fears.


Almighty scar! Almighty Hand
That smote thee, who can understand
And who describe this wondrous land
Beyond compare?
Can mortal paint the flower's perfume,
Or see beyond the mystic tomb,
Or e'en describe God's anteroom,
So wondrous fair?