C. Elliott

8.8.8.4.

MY God, is any hour so sweet,

From blush of morn to evening star,

As that which calls me to Thy feet,

The hour of prayer.

2

Blest be that tranquil hour of morn,

And blest that hour of solemn eve,

When, on the wings of prayer upborne,

The world I leave.

3

For then a dayspring shines on me,

Brighter than morn’s ethereal glow;

And richer dews descend from Thee

Than earth can know.

4

Then is my strength by Thee renewed;

Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;

Then dost Thou cheer my solitude

With hopes of heaven.

5

Words cannot tell what blest relief

Here for my every want I find;

What strength for warfare, balm for grief;

What peace of mind.

6

Hushed is each doubt, gone every fear;

My spirit seems in heaven to stay;

And e’en the penitential tear

Is wiped away.

7

Oh, till I reach yon peaceful shore,

No privilege so dear shall be,

As thus my inmost soul to pour

In prayer to Thee.