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 is 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 day-spring shines on me,
Brighter than morn’s ether­eal glow;
And rich­er dews des­cend from Thee,
Than earth can now

Then is my strength by Thee re­newed;
Then are my sins by Thee for­giv’n;
Then dost Thou cheer my so­li­tude
With hopes of Heav’n.

No words can tell what sweet re­lief
There 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 Heav’n to stay;
And e’en the pe­ni­ten­tial tear
Is wiped away.

Lord, till I reach yon bliss­ful shore,
No pri­vi­lege so dear shall be
As thus my in­most soul to pour
In pray­er to Thee.