Norman Pinney (1800–1862)

HOW calm comes on this holy day!

Morning unfolds the eastern sky,

And upward takes her lofty way,

Triumphant to her throne on high.

Earth glorious wakes, as o’er her breast

The morning flings her rosy ray,

And, blushing from her dreamless rest,

Unveils her to the gaze of day;

So still the scene, each wakeful sound

Seems hallow’d music breathing round.

The night-wind to their mountain caves,

The morning mists to heaven’s blue steep,

And to their ocean depths the waves

Are gone, their holy rest to keep.

’T is tranquil all—around—above—

The forests far, which bound the scene,

Are peaceful as their Maker’s love,

Like hills of everlasting green;

And clouds like earthly barriers stand,

Or bulwarks of some viewless land.

Each tree, that lifts its arms in air,

Or hangs its pensive head from high,

Seems bending at its morning prayer,

Or whispering with the hours gone by.

This holy morning, Lord, is thine—

Let silence sanctify thy praise,

Let heaven and earth in love combine

And morning stars their music raise;—

For ’t is the day—joy—joy—ye dead,

When death and hell were captive led.