Blest hour, when mor­tal man re­tires
To hold com­mun­ion with his God;
To send to Hea­ven his warm de­sires,
And list­en to the sac­red word.

Blest hour, when God Him­self draws nigh,
Well pleased His peo­ple’s voice to hear;
To hush the pe­ni­ten­tial sigh,
And wipe away the mourn­er’s tear.

Blest hour, for, when the Lord re­sorts,
Foretastes of fu­ture bliss are giv­en;
And mor­tals find His earth­ly courts
The house of God, the gate of Hea­ven.

Hail, peace­ful hour! su­preme­ly blest
Amid the hours of world­ly care;
The hour that yields the Spi­rit rest,
That sac­red hour, the hour of pray­er.

And when my hours of pray­er are past,
And this frail te­ne­ment de­cays,
Then may I spend in Hea­ven at last
A ne­ver-end­ing hour of praise.