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?
Blessed is that tranquil hour of morn, And blessed that hour of solemn eve, When on the wings of prayer upborne, The world I leave.
For then a dayspring shines on me, Brighter than morning’s welcome 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.
Charlotte Elliott, 1789-1871