1 The day of praise is done;
The evening shadows fall;
Yet pass not from us with the sun,
True Light that lightenest all.

2 Around Thy throne on high
Where night can never be,
The white-robed harpers of the sky
Bring ceaseless songs to Thee.

3 Too faint our anthems here;
Too soon of praise we tire;
But oh1 the strains how full and clear
Of that eternal choir.

4 Yet, Lord, to thy dear will
If thou attune the heart,
We in Thine angels' music still
may bear our lower part.

5 'T is Thine each soul to calm,
Each wayward thought reclaim,
And make our daily life a psalm
Of glory to Thy Name.

6 shine thou within us, the,
A day that knows no end,
Till songs of angels and of men
In prefect praise shall blend.