Thou plen­te­ous source of light and love,
From whom all grace pro­ceeds,
Chase from our souls the gloom of night,
And make us hate its deeds:
In ar­mor clad of hea­ven­ly proof
We will not fear or fly,
But brave­ly through op­pos­ing hosts
Press on­ward to the sky.

If long and doubt­ful seem the strife,
Our pains and tri­als sore,
Such are the ills of mor­tal life,
And such our Sav­ior bore:
Once, hum­bled from His lofty throne,
He dwelt in weak­ness here,
And His has been the strug­gling sigh,
And His the fall­ing tear.

When time has run its des­tined course,
And all our years are fled,
He comes, with mon­arch’s pomp and pow­er,
To wake and judge the dead:
Then help us, Lord, while sin­ners’ hearts
Shall sicken with dis­may,
To lift our heads, and joy­ful hail
Redemption’s per­fect day.