1 Our day of praise is done;
the evening shadows fall;
but pass not from us with the sun,
true Light that lightenest all.

2 Around the throne on high,
where night can never be,
the white-robed harpers of the sky
bring ceaseless hymns to thee.

3 Too faint our anthems here;
too soon of praise we tire;
but O 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 ’Tis thine each soul to calm,
each wayward thought reclaim,
and make our life a daily psalm
of glory to thy name.

6 A little while, and then
shall come the glorious end;
and songs of angels and of men
in perfect praise shall blend.