The wing­èd her­ald of the day
Proclaims the morn’s ap­proach­ing ray:
And Christ the Lord our souls ex­cites,
And so to end­less life in­vites.

Take up thy bed, to each He cries,
Who sick or wrapped in slum­ber lies;
And chaste and just and so­ber stand
And watch: My com­ing is at hand.

With ear­nest cry, with tear­ful care,
Call we the Lord to hear our pray­er;
While sup­pli­ca­tion, pure and deep,
Forbids each chast­ened heart to sleep.

Do Thou, O Christ, our slum­ber wake:
Do Thou the chains of dark­ness break;
Purge Thou our for­mer sins away,
And in our souls new light dis­play.

All laud to God the Fa­ther be,
All praise, eter­nal Son, to Thee;
All glo­ry, as is ev­er meet,
To God the ho­ly Pa­ra­clete.