C. Elliott

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.


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.


For then a dayspring shines on me,

Brighter than morn’s ethereal glow;

And richer dews descend from Thee

Than earth can know.


Then is my strength by Thee renewed;

Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;

Then dost Thou cheer my solitude

With hopes of heaven.


Words cannot tell what blest relief

Here for my every want I find;

What strength for warfare, balm for grief;

What peace of mind.


Hushed is each doubt, gone every fear;

My spirit seems in heaven to stay;

And e’en the penitential tear

Is wiped away.


Oh, till I reach yon peaceful shore,

No privilege so dear shall be,

As thus my inmost soul to pour

In prayer to Thee.


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