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THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
Oh, sweet to me the blush of morn,
And sweet the richly perfumed air;
Sweet is the lovely blossomed thorn,
But sweeter still the hour of prayer.
And sweet the richly perfumed air;
Sweet is the lovely blossomed thorn,
But sweeter still the hour of prayer.
It lifts my thoughts from man to God;
It brings remembrance back of those
Who sleep beneath the mould'ring sod,
Released from care in soft repose.
It brings remembrance back of those
Who sleep beneath the mould'ring sod,
Released from care in soft repose.
And when I breathe the fervent prayer,
From earth my spirit seems to sped;
And, freed from worldly thought and care,
Holds commune with the happy dead.
From earth my spirit seems to sped;
And, freed from worldly thought and care,
Holds commune with the happy dead.
Oh, dear to me the solemn sound
Of closing evening's vesper bell;
It fills the mind with thoughts profound,
Spreads round the heart a holy spell.
Of closing evening's vesper bell;
It fills the mind with thoughts profound,
Spreads round the heart a holy spell.
Oh, sweet to me the blush of morn,
And sweet the richly perfumed air,
Sweet is the lovely blossomed thorn,
But sweeter still the hour of prayer.
And sweet the richly perfumed air,
Sweet is the lovely blossomed thorn,
But sweeter still the hour of prayer.
