Fairest of all the lights above,
Thou sun, whose beams adorn the spheres,
And with un­wea­ried swift­ness move,
To form the cir­cles of our years;

Praise the Cre­at­or of the skies,
That dressed thine orb in gold­en rays:
Or may the sun for­get to rise,
If he for­get his mak­er’s praise!

Thou reign­ing beau­ty of the night,
Fair queen of si­lence, sil­ver moon,
Whose gen­tle beams, and bor­rowed light,
Are soft­er ri­vals of the noon;

Arise, and to that so­ver­eign Pow­er
Waxing and wan­ing hon­ors pay,
Who bade thee rule the dus­ky hours,
And half sup­ply the ab­sent day!

Ye twink­ling stars, who gild the skies,
When dark­ness has its cur­tain drawn,
Who keep your watch with wake­ful eyes,
When bu­si­ness, cares, and day, are gone;

Proclaim the glo­ries of your Lord,
Dispersed through all the heav’n­ly street,
Whose bound­less trea­sures can af­ford
So rich a pave­ment for His feet.

Thou Heav’n of heav’ns, su­preme­ly bright,
Fair pa­lace of the court di­vine,
Where, with in­im­it­able light,
The God­head con­des­cends to shine.

Praise thou thy great In­ha­bi­tant,
Who scat­ters love­ly beams of grace
On ev­ery an­gel, ev­ery saint,
Nor veils the lus­ter of His face.

O God of glo­ry, God of love,
Thou art the sun that makes our days;
With all Thy shin­ing works above
Let earth and dust at­tempt Thy praise!