Stars of the morn­ing, so glo­ri­ous­ly bright,
Filled with ce­les­ti­al splen­dor and light,
These that, where night ne­ver fol­low­eth day,
Raise the Thrice Ho­ly song ev­er and aye.

These are Thy min­is­ters, these dost Thou own,
God of Sa­ba­oth, the near­est Thy throne;
These are Thy mes­sen­gers, these dost Thou send,
Help of the help­less ones! man to de­fend.

Who like the Lord? thun­ders Mi­chael the chief;
Raphael, the cure of God, com­fort­eth grief;
And, as at Na­za­reth, pro­phet of peace,
Gabriel, the light of God, bring­eth re­lease.

Then, when the earth was first poised in mid space,
Then, when the pla­nets first sped on their race,
Then, when were end­ed the six days’ em­ploy,
Then all the sons of God shout­ed for joy.

Still let them suc­cor us; still let them fight,
Lord of an­gel­ic hosts, bat­tling for right;
Till, where their an­thems they cease­less­ly pour,
We with the an­gels may bow and adore.