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.