Scripture Verse

His compassions fail not. They are new every morning. Lamentations 3:22–23


John Keble (1792–1866)

Words: John Ke­ble, from his po­em Hues of the Rich Un­fold­ing Morn, in The Chris­tian Year, 1827.

Music: Mel­combe Sam­uel Webbe, 1782 (🔊 pdf nwc).

Samuel Webbe, Sr. (1740–1816)


New ev­ery morn­ing is the love
Our wak­en­ing and up­ris­ing prove;
Through sleep and dark­ness safe­ly brought,
Restored to life and pow­er and thought.

New mer­cies, each re­turn­ing day,
Hover around us while we pray;
New per­ils past, new sins for­giv­en,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of Hea­ven.

If, on our dai­ly course, our mind
Be set to hal­low all we find,
New trea­sures still, of count­less price,
God will pro­vide for sac­ri­fice.

Old friends, old scenes, will love­li­er be,
As more of Hea­ven in each we see;
Some soft­en­ing gleam of love and pray­er
Shall dawn on ev­ery cross and care.

We need not bid, for clois­tered cell,
Our neigh­bor and our words fare­well,
Nor strive to find our­selves too high
For sin­ful man be­neath the sky.

The tri­vi­al round, the com­mon task,
Will fur­nish all we ought to ask;
Room to de­ny our­selves, a road
To bring us dai­ly near­er God.

Seek we no more; con­tent with these,
Let pre­sent rap­ture, com­fort, ease—
As Heav’n shall bid them, come and go:
The sec­ret this of rest be­low.

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love,
Fit us for per­fect rest above,
And help us, this and ev­ery day,
To live more near­ly as we pray.