Up to the throne of God is borne
The voice of praise at early morn,
And he accepts the punctual hymn
Sung as the light of day grows dim:

Nor will He turn His ear aside
From holy offerings at noontide:
Then here reposing let us raise
A song of gratitude and praise.

What though our burthen be not light,
We need not toil from morn to night;
The respite of the mid-day hour
Is in the thankful creature�s power.

Blest are the moments, doubly blest,
That, drawn from this one hour of rest,
Are with a ready heart bestowed
Upon the service of our God!

Each field is then a hallowed spot,
An altar is in each man�s cot,
A church in every grove that spreads
Its living roof above our heads.

Look up to Heaven! the industrious sun
Already half his race hath run;
�He� cannot halt nor go astray,
But our immortal spirits may.

Lord! since his rising in the East,
If we have faltered or transgressed,
Guide, from Thy love�s abundant source,
What yet remains of this day�s course:

Help with Thy grace, through life�s short day,
Our upward and our downward way;
And glorify for us the west,
When we shall sink to final rest.