My God, who makes the sun to know
His pro­per hour to rise;
And to give light to all be­low,
Doth send him round the skies!

When from the cham­bers of the east
His morn­ing race begins,
He ne­ver tires, nor stops to rest,
But round the world he shines.

So, like the sun, would I ful­fill
The bu­si­ness of the day;
Begin my work be­times, and still
March on my heav’n­ly way.

Give me, O Lord, Thy ear­ly grace,
Nor let my soul com­plain
That the young morn­ing of my day
Has all been spent in vain!