1 Another fleeting day is gone,
Slow o'er the west the shadows rise;
Swift the soft-stealing hours have flown,
And night's dark mantle veils the skies.
2 Another fleeting day is gone;
In solemn silence rest, my soul!
Bow down before His awful throne,
Who bids the morn and evening roll.
3 Soon shall a darker night descend,
And veil from me yon azure skies;
And soon shall death's oppressive hand
Lie heavy on these languid eyes.
4 Yet when beneath the dreadful shade
I lay my weary frame to rest,
That night shall not make me afraid;
That bed the dying Saviour pressed.
5 Again emerging from the night,
I, like my risen Lord, shall rise;
Again drink in the morning light,
Pure at its fount above the skies.
Source: The Book of Worship #193