Is there a lone and dreary hour,

When worldly pleasures lose their power;—

My Father! let me turn to Thee,

And set each thought of darkness free.

Is there a time of racking grief,

Which scorns the prospect of relief;

My Father! break the cheerless gloom,

And bid my heart its calm resume.

Is there an hour of peace and joy,

When hope is all my soul’s employ;—

My Father! still my hopes will roam,

Until they rest with Thee, their home.

The noontide blaze, the midnight scene,

The dawn, or twilight’s sweet serene,

The glow of health, the dying hour,

Shall own my Father’s grace and power.