A morning song.
My God, who makes the sun to know
His proper hour to rise;
And, to give light to all below,
Doth send him round the skies:
When from the chambers of the east
His morning race begins,
He never tires, nor stops to rest,
But round the world he shines.
So, like the sun, would I fulfil
The business of the day;
Begin my work betimes, and still
March on my heavenly way.
Give me, O Lord, thy early grace,
Nor let my soul complain
That the young morning of my day
Has all been spent in vain!