1 Thou plenteous source of light and love,
From whom all grace proceeds,
Chase from our souls the gloom of night,
And make us hate its deeds:
In armor clad of heavenly proof
We will not fear or fly,
But bravely through opposing hosts
Press onward to the sky.

2 If long and doubtful seem the strife,
Our pains and trials sore,
Such are the ills of mortal life,
And such our Savior bore:
Once, humbled from His lofty throne,
He dwelt in weakness here,
And His has been the struggling sigh,
And His the falling tear.

3 When time has run its destined course,
And all our years are fled,
He comes, with monarch’s pomp and power,
To wake and judge the dead:
Then help us, Lord, while sinners’ hearts
Shall sicken with dismay,
To lift our heads, and joyful hail
Redemption’s perfect day.