C. M.

The morning of a Lord's day.

Early, my God, without delay,

I haste to seek thy face;

My thirsty spirit faints away

Without thy cheering grace.

So pilgrims on the scorching sand,

Beneath a burning sky,

Long for a cooling stream at hand,

And they must drink or die.

I've seen thy glory and thy power

Through all thy temple shine;

My God, repeat that heav'nly hour,

That vision so divine.

Not all the blessings of a feast

Can please my soul so well,

As when thy richer grace I taste,

And in thy presence dwell.

Not life itself, with all her joys,

Can my best passions move,

Or raise so high my cheerful voice,

As thy forgiving love.

Thus till my last expiring day

I'll bless my God and King;

Thus will I lift my hands to pray,

And tune my lips to sing.