DAUGHTER of Zion, from the dust
Exalt thy fallen head,
Again in thy Redeemer trust,
He calls thee from the dead.
Awake, awake, put on Thy strength,
Thy beautiful array ;
The day of freedom dawns at length,
The Lord's appointed day.
Rebuild Thy walls, Thy bounds enlarge,
And send Thy heralds forth,
Say to the South, "give up thy charge," And keep not back, "O North."
They come, they come, Thine exiled bands, Where'er they rest, or roam,
Have heard Thy voice in distant lands,
And hasten to their home.
Thus, though the universe shall burn,
And God His works destroy,
With songs Thy ransomed shall return,
And everlasting joy.
WHAT secret hand, at morning light,
By stealth unseals mine eye,
Draws back the curtain of the night,
And opens earth, and sky?
'Tis Thine, my God, the same, that kept
My resting hours from harm;
No ill came nigh me, for I slept
Beneath th' Almighty's arm.
'Tis Thine, my daily bread that brings,
Like manna, scattered round,
And clothes me, as the lily springs
In beauty from the ground.
This is the hand, that shaped my frame, And gave my pulse to beat;
That bare me oft thro' flood, and flame, Through tempest, cold, and heat.
In death's dark valley though I stray,
'T would there my steps attend,
Guide with the staff my lonely way,
And with the rod defend.
May that dear hand uphold me still,
Through life's uncertain race,
To bring me to Thy holy hill,
And to Thy dwelling place.
As toiling onward, day by day,
Fresh cares beset me on my way,
Saviour, till life's dark changes end,
Be Thou my ever present Friend,-
Teach me from this vain world to flee,
And know no joy apart from Thee.
When each day's scenes and conflicts close,
And wearied nature seeks repose;
With pardoning mercy richly blest,
Guard me, my Saviour, while I rest,
And, as the beams of morning rise,
Oh lead me onward to the skies:
And at my life's last setting sun,
My warfare o'er, my labours done,
Jesus, Thine heavenly radiance shed,
To cheer, and bless my dying bed,
Then from death's gloom my spirit raise,
To see Thy face, and sing Thy praise.
Он, timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts, that with rising morn arise,
Eyes, that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new.
New every morning is the love
Our wakening, and uprising prove,
Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restored to life, and power, and thought.
New mercies, each returning day,
Hover around us, while we pray,
New perils past, new sins forgiven,
New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven.
If in our daily course, our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still of countless price
God will provide for sacrifice.
We need not bid for cloistered cell,
Our neighbours, and our work farewell,
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high,
For sinful man beneath the sky.
The trivial round, the common task
Would furnish all, that we can ask,
Room to deny ourselves, a road
To bring us daily nearer God.
Seek we no more, content with these,
Let present rapture, comfort, ease,
As Heaven shall bid them, come, and go,
The secret this of rest below.
THE spacious firmament on high,
And all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim.
Th' unwearied Sun, from day to day
Doth his Creator's praise display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The Moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly, to the listening Earth,
Repeats the story of her birth.
While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round this dark terrestrial ball,
What though no real voice, nor sound
Among their radiant orbs be found,
With saints and angels they rejoice,
And utter forth their glorious voice:
For ever singing as they shine,
"The hand that made us is Divine!"
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