Hues of the Rich Unfolding Morn

Hues of the rich un­fold­ing morn

That ere the glo­ri­ous sun be born

By some soft touch in­vi­si­ble

Around his path are taught to swell!

Thou rust­ling breeze

so fresh and gay

That danc­est forth at op­en­ing day

And brush­ing by with joy­ous wing

Wakenest each lit­tle leaf to sing.

Ye frag­rant clouds of dewy steam

By which deep grove and tan­gled stream

Pay

for soft rains in sea­sons giv­en

Their tri­bute to the ge­ni­al heav­en.

Why waste your trea­sures of de­light

Upon our thank­less

joy­ous sight

Who day by day to sin awake

Seldom of Heav­en and you par­take?

Oh! 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

on our dai­ly course

our mind

Be set to hal­low all we find

New trea­sures still

of count­less price

God will pro­vide for sac­ri­fice.

Old friends

old scenes

will love­li­er be

As more of Heav­en in each we see;

Some soft­en­ing gleam of love and pray­er

Shall dawn on ev­ery cross and care.

As for some dear fa­mil­iar strain

Untired we ask

and ask again

Ever

in its me­lo­dious store

Finding a spell un­heard be­fore;

Such is the bliss of souls se­rene

When they have sworn

and stead­fast mean

Counting the cost

in all t’es­py

Their God

in all them­selves de­ny.

Oh could we learn that sac­ri­fice

What lights would all around us rise!

How would our hearts with wis­dom talk

Along life’s dull­est

drea­ri­est walk!

We need not bid

for clois­tered cell

Our neigh­bor and our work fare­well

Nor strive to find our­selves too high

For sin­ful man be­neath the sky.

The tri­vi­al round

the com­mon task

Will fur­nish all we ought to 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.

Only

O Lord

in Thy dear love

Fit us for per­fect rest ab­ove

And help us

this and ev­ery day

To live more near­ly as we pray.