Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at ear­ly morn,
And He ac­cepts the punc­tu­al hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim:

Nor will He turn His ear aside
From ho­ly of­fer­ings at noon­tide:
Then here re­pos­ing let us raise
A song of gra­ti­tude and praise.

What though our bur­den be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The res­pite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thank­ful crea­ture’s pow­er.

Blest are the mo­ments, doub­ly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a rea­dy heart be­stowed
Upon the ser­vice of our God!

Each field is then a hal­lowed spot,
An al­tar is in each man’s cot,
A church in ev­ery grove that spreads
Its liv­ing roof above our heads.

Look up to Hea­ven! the in­dus­tri­ous sun
Already half his race hath run;
He can­not halt nor go as­tray,
But our im­mor­tal spir­its may.

Lord! since his ris­ing in the East,
If we have fal­tered or trans­gressed,
Guide, from Thy love’s abun­dant source,
What yet re­mains of this day’s course:

Help with Thy grace, through life’s short day,
Our up­ward and our down­ward way;
And glo­ri­fy for us the west,
When we shall sink to fi­nal rest.