God of the changing year, whose arm of power

In safety leads through danger’s darkest hour,—

Here in Thy temple bow Thy children down,

To bless Thy mercy, and Thy might to own.

Thine are the beams that cheer us on our way,

And pour around the gladdening light of day;

Thine is the night, and the fair orbs that shine

To cheer its hours of darkness,—all are Thine.

If round our path the thorns of sorrow grew,

And mortal friends were faithless, Thou wast true

Did sickness shake the frame, or anguish tear

The wounded spirit, Thou wast present there.

O, lend Thine ear, and lift our voice to Thee;

Where’er we dwell, still let Thy mercy be;

From year to year, still nearer to Thy shrine

Draw our frail hearts, and make them wholly Thine!