Our day of praise is done; The evening shadows fall; But pass not from us with the sun, True Light that lightenest all. | Around the throne on high, Where night can never be, The white-robed harpers of the sky Bring ceaseless hymns to thee. | Too faint our anthems here; Too soon of praise we tire: But O, the strains, how full and clear, Of that eternal choir! | Yet, Lord, to thy dear will If thou attune the heart, We in thine angels' music still May bear our lower part. | 'Tis thine each soul to calm, Each wayward thought reclaim, And make our life a daily psalm Of glory to thy Name. | A little while, and then Shall come the glorious end; And songs of angels and of men In perfect praise shall blend. | |