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

Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;

Then dost Thou cheer my solitude

With hopes of heaven.

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.

Hush’d is each doubt, gone ev’ry 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.