Charlotte Elliott (1789–1871)

MY GOD! is any hour so sweet,

From blush of morn to evening-star,

As that which calls me to Thy feet,—

The hour of prayer?

Blest is that tranquil hour of morn,

And blest that hour of solemn eve,

When on the wings of prayer up-borne,

The world I leave!

For then a day-spring shines on me,

Brighter than morn’s ethereal glow;

And richer dews descend from Thee

Than earth can know.

Then is my strength by Thee renewed;

Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;

Then dost Thou cheer my solitude

With hope of heaven.

No words can tell what sweet relief

There for my every want I find,

What strength for warfare, balm for grief,

What peace of mind.

Hushed is each doubt; gone every fear;

My spirit seems in heaven to stay:

And e’en the penitential tear

Is wiped away.

Lord! till I reach yon blissful shore,

No privilege so dear shall be,

As thus my inmost soul to pour

In prayer to Thee.