The Hour of Prayer

The Hour of Prayer

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 dayspring shines on me,
Brighter than morn's etherial glow;
And richer dews descend from Thee

Than earth can know.

Then is my strength by Thee renewed;
Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;
Then dost Thou cheer my solitude

With hope of heaven.

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 spirits seems in heaven to stay;
And e'en the penitential tear

Is wiped away.

Lord! till I reach your blissful shore,
No privilege so dear shall be,
And thus my inmost soul to pour

In prayer to Thee.

Charlotte Elliot

1:19, p. 1

11.26.1859