I.

What secret hand, at morning-light,

By stealth, unseals mine eye,

Draws back the curtain of the night,

And opens earth and sky?

'Tis thine, my God! the same that kept

My resting hours from harm;

No ill came nigh me, for I slept

Beneath the Almighty's arm.

'Tis Thine,--my daily bread that brings,

Like manna scatter'd round:

And clothes me, as the lily springs,

In beauty from the ground.

This is the hand that shaped my frame,

And gave my pulse to beat;

That bare me oft through flood and flame,

Through tempest, cold, and heat.

In death's dark valley, though I stray,

'Twould there my stops attend,

Guide with Thy staff my lonely way,

And with Thy rod defend.

May that dear hand uphold me still,

Through life's uncertain race,

To bring me to Thy holy Hill,

And to Thy dwelling place!