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268 The Book of Praise.
The sun has its meridian past; Soon will its beams oblique be cast; And twilight pale will rise t' enshroud Their radiance in the western cloud.
Yet, for a time, 'tis bright and glad ; But coming night is dark and sad : The day to man for toil was given ; And none at night can work for Heaven.
Sun of my soul, Thyself display ! Quicken me, Lord, and cheer my way ! Till, borne upon Thy healing wing, Upward I soar Thy praise to sing.
E'en now, when far from Thy bless'd light, At morn and eve, at noon and night, I tune my heart betimes, to join, Where angels in Thy presence shine.
Yet angels, in their loftiest song, Fail in their flight, and do Thee wrong ; Like as their veil'd adoring face Tells of a Glory, none can trace !
And now, my mid-day homage paid, Life's busy path again I tread ; Yet happier far its task I ply From surer trust that Thou art nigh ;
Nigh to defend, assist, and bless, Making my cares and dangers less ; And daily duteous toil the road, That leads to perfect peace in God : |
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