From Spurgeon's, DAVID'S DYING PRAYER
"All your works praise you, O God"
The stars still sing their Maker's praise; no sin has stopped
their voice, no discord has made a jarring note among the
harmonies of the spheres.
The earth itself still praises its Maker, the exhalations,
as they arise with morn, are still a pure offering,
acceptable to their Maker.
The lowing of the cattle, the singing of the birds, the leaping of
the fishes, and the delights of animal creation, are still acceptable
as votive offerings to the Most High.
The mountains still bring righteousness; on their hoary summits
God's holy feet might tread, for they are yet pure and spotless.
Still do the green valleys, laughing with their verdure
send up their shouts to the Most High.
The praise of God is sung by every wind it is howled forth in
dread majesty by the voice of the tempest, the winds resound it,
and the waves, with their thousand hands, clap, keeping chorus
in the great march of God.
The whole earth is still a great orchestra for God's praise,
and his creatures still take up various parts in the eternal song,
which, ever swelling and ever increasing, shall by-and-by mount
to its climax in the consummation of all things.