Oh, the freshness of the morning, and the glory of the noon, And the splendor of the night-tide with the holy stars in tune! The ground has voice, the trees rejoice, the birds their carol bring, And I alone among them all have not a song to sing. There's music in the cloud-drifts, there's a chorus in the flowers, There's a symphony of fragrance through the pleasant summer hours, And mountain-top to mountain-top flings out a mighty song, While I alone am coldly dumb amid this chanting throng. Awake, O God, my sluggish soul and stir my tongue to praise. Let loving, loyal anthems rise from all my nights and days. Lord, take away my shame among this soulless, singing host; I know Thee better far than these; oh, let me praise Thee most! |