God of the morn­ing, at whose voice
The cheer­ful sun makes haste to rise,
And like a gi­ant doth re­joice
To run his jour­ney through the skies.

From the fair cham­bers of the east
The cir­cuit of his race be­gins,
And, with­out wea­ri­ness or rest,
Round the whole earth he flies and shines.

O like the sun may I ful­fill
Th’appointed du­ties of the day,
With rea­dy mind and ac­tive will
March on and keep my heav’n­ly way.

But I shall rove and lose the race,
If God, my sun, should dis­ap­pear,
And leave me in this world’s wild maze,
To fol­low ev­ery wan­d’ring star.

Lord, Thy com­mands are clean and pure,
Enlightening our be­cloud­ed eyes;
Thy threat­en­ings just, Thy pro­mise sure,
Thy Gos­pel makes the sim­ple wise.

Give me Thy coun­sel for my guide,
And then re­ceive me to Thy bliss;
All my de­sires and hopes be­side
Are faint and cold com­pared with this.