I like this.

I was reading a book called "Contemplations" by Augustus Toplady, and I came upon this little thing at the end.
Before the poem is a little info that he wrote about it.

The following Poetic Essay, was originally inserted in the London Magazine, for March, 1756. It was composed when the writer was fifteen years and twenty-one days old. This was before he had any gracious knowledge of the truth.

To a Friend, asking what God was.

Is there a man whose daring hand,
Can number every grain of sand?
Can count the drops that fill the sea?
And tell how many stars there be?
Who shall presume to comprehend,
Infinity, that knows no end?
Who shall set bounds to boundless power,
Restrain Omnipotence, or lower,
Eternity to one poor hour?
Who shall disclose the Maker's plan,
Or dare His secret will to scan?
Shall feeble, short-lived, sinful man?
Believe me friend, thou canst no more,
The vast designs of God explore,
Than Thy short arm can reach the sky,
Or turn the spacious ocean dry.
None but perfection such as His,
Can know the Almighty as He is,
His searchless glory can't be brought,
Adapted to a moral's thought,
His majesty we can't discern,
His attributes we cannot learn,
Till He removes this earthly glass,
And shows His glory face to face.
Vain is the wisdom, vain the skill,
That strives to take away the veil,
That searches every mystery,
While clouded with morality.
God is a theme too great for thought,
An awful something, who knows what?
Be silent, and submit to show,
Respect what thou can'st not know,
Remember what thou art and fear,
This unknown witness, always near.
Search not into His deep decree,
The subject's too refined for thee,
Thou must not ask, nor wish to see.
Cast each presumptuous doubt away,
Consider thou art best but clay,
Whose only province is to obey.

Augustus Toplady

tuesday nov. 23, 1755.

I find it funny that when he wrote the little header piece he didn't say that he was the writer.
Fifteen. That's crazy. I couldn't rhyme two lines together when I was fifteen. Very good though.