1 Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in their furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light;
2 Thy grace can send its breathings o'er
The spirit, dark and lost before;
And freshening all its depths, prepare
For truth divine to enter there!
3 Till David touched his sacred lyre,
In silence lay the unbreathing wire,
But when he swept its chords along,
E'en angels stooped to hear the song.
4 So sleeps the soul, till Thou, O Lord,
Shall deign to touch its lifeless chord;
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music worthy of the skies.