At mid­night’s ho­ly hour the saints
Sang prais­es to the Lord above,
Who al­ways hears the meek com­plaints
Of hum­ble souls that trust His love.

No pri­son wall can chain the soul,
By ho­ly truth set free from sin;
On wings of faith it seeks its goal:
At Hea­ven’s court it en­ters in.

And well they knew that God would hear,
For He is Fa­ther ov­er all;
He rules and reigns in high­est sphere,
And notes on earth the spar­row’s fall.

An earth­quake shock the pri­son door
Throws wide to free­dom’s frag­rant air;
The loos­ened stocks de­clare no more
A wor­ship­er should fet­ters wear.

Oh, let us, then, what­e’er our lot,
Remember on our pi­lgrim way,
On dow­ny couch, or pri­son cot,
In good or ill, to praise and pray.