To Thee, in Youth’s Bright Morning

To Thee

in youth’s bright morn­ing

Father of all

we pray;

While thought and fan­cy dawn­ing

Lead on the ris­ing day;

To Thee

in life’s last ev­en

We’ll tune our feeb­ler breath;

Hear all our sins for­giv­en

And soft­ly sleep in death.

When from death’s sleep we wak­en

No fears shall us sur­prise;

All earth­ly things for­sak­en

What joys shall meet our eyes!

With rap­ture then in­creas­ing

For ev­er we’ll re­joice;

And prais­es nev­er ceas­ing

Shall wake each tune­ful voice.

Though vine nor fig tree ei­ther

Its fruit or leaves should bear;

Though all the fields should wi­ther

Nor flocks nor herds be there;

Yet God

the same ab­id­ing

His praise shall tune my voice;

For while in Him con­fid­ing

I can­not but re­joice.