Still, still with Thee, when pur­ple morn­ing break­eth,
When the bird wak­eth, and the sha­dows flee;
Fairer than morn­ing, love­li­er than day­light,
Dawns the sweet con­scious­ness, I am with Thee.

Alone with Thee, amid the mys­tic sha­dows,
The so­lemn hush of na­ture new­ly born;
Alone with Thee in breath­less ado­ra­tion,
In the calm dew and fresh­ness of the morn.

As in the dawn­ing o’er the wave­less ocean
The im­age of the morn­ing star doth rest,
So in the still­ness Thou be­hold­est on­ly
Thine im­age in the wa­ters of my breast.

Still, still with Thee, as to each new­born morn­ing,
A fresh and so­lemn splen­dor still is giv­en,
So does this bless­èd con­scious­ness, awak­ing,
Breathe each day near­ness un­to Thee and Hea­ven.

When sinks the soul, sub­dued by toil, to slum­ber,
Its clos­ing eye looks up to Thee in pray­er;
Sweet the re­pose be­neath the wings o’er­shad­ing,
But sweet­er still to wake and find Thee there.

So shall it be at last, in that bright morn­ing,
When the soul wak­eth and life’s sha­dows flee;
O in that hour, fair­er than day­light dawn­ing,
Shall rise the glo­ri­ous thought, I am with Thee.