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MY God, is any hour so sweet,
   From blush of morn to evening star,
As that which calls me to Thy feet—
        The hour of prayer?
 
2  Blessed is that tranquil hour of morn,
    And blessed that hour of solemn eve,
When on the wings of prayer upborne,
        The world I leave.
 
3  For then a dayspring shines on me,
    Brighter than morning’s welcome glow,
And richer dews descend from Thee
        Than earth can know.
 
4  Then is my strength by Thee renewed;
    Then are my sins by Thee forgiven;
Then dost Thou cheer my solitude
        With hope of Heaven.
 
5  No words can tell what sweet relief
    There for my every want I find,
What strength for warfare, balm for grief—
        What peace of mind.
 
6  Hushed is each doubt, gone every fear,
    My spirit seems in Heaven to stay:
And e’en the penitential tear
        Is wiped away.
 
7  Lord, till I reach yon blissful shore,
    No privilege so dear shall be
As thus my inmost soul to pour
        In prayer to Thee.
 
Charlotte Elliott, 1789-1871