Come, my soul, awake, 't is morning,
Day is dawning
O'er the earth, arise and pray;
Come, to Hime who made this splendour
Thou must render
All thy feeble pow'rs can pay.
Soul, thy incense also proffer;
Thou shouldst offer
Praise to Him, who from thy head
Kept afar the storms of sorrow,
And the morrow
Finds the night in peace hath fled.
Bid Him bless what thou art doing,
Some good aim; but if there lurks
Ill intent in thine endeavour,
May He ever
Thwart and turn thee from thy works.
From God's glances shrink thou never,
Meet them ever;
Who submits him to His grace,
Finds that earth no sunshine knoweth
Such as gloweth
O'er his pathway all his days.
Wakenest thou again to sorrow,
Oh! then borrow
Strength from Him, whose sun-like might
On the mountain-summit tarries,
And yet carries
To the vales their mirth and light.
Pray that when thy life is closing,
Thou mayst die, and not in pain;
That, the night of death departed,
Mayst behold the Sun again.