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The Book of Praise.
Of Thee our King O may we sing, And none with such a theme be dumb !
O hasten, Lord, the day when those,
Who know Thee here, shall see Thy face ; When suffering shall for ever close, And they shall reach their destined place; Then shall they rest Supremely blest, Eternal debtors to Thy grace !
Thomas Kelly. 1806. |
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CCCXVII.
Hail, thou bright and sacred morn, Risen with gladness in thy beams !
Light, which not of earth is born, From thy dawn in glory streams :
Airs of Heaven are breath'd around
And each place is holy ground.
Sad and weary were our,way, Fainting oft beneath our load,
But for thee, thou blessed day,
Resting-place on life's rough road !
Here flow forth the streams of grace,
Strengthen'd hence we run our race.
Great Creator ! who this day
From Thy perfect work didst rest •,
By the souls that own Thy sway Hallow'd be its hours and blest;
Cares of earth aside be thrown,
This day giv'n to Heaven alone ! |
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