| 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 fulfill The business of the day; Begin my work betimes, and still March on my heavenly way. Give me, O Lord, Thine early grace, Nor let my soul complain, That the young morning of my days Has all been spent in vain. |
| --Isaac Watts. |
MADONNA OF THE ANGELS
By Adolph Bouguereau (1825-1905)
| "The mother with the Child, Whose tender winning arts Have to His little arms beguiled So many wounded hearts." |
| --Matthew Arnold |
| AN EVENING SONG |
| And now another day is gone, I'll sing my Maker's praise; My comforts every hour make known His providence and grace. But how my childhood runs to waste! My sins, how great their sum! Lord, give me pardon for the past, And strength for days to come. I lay my body down to sleep, Let angels guard my head; And, through the hours of darkness, keep Their watch around my bed. With cheerful heart I close my eyes, Since Thou wilt not remove; And in the morning let me rise, Rejoicing in Thy love. |
| --Isaac Watts. |