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27Q The Book of Praise.
Thus time, unheeded, steals away
The life which nature gave ; Thus are our bodies every day
Declining to the grave : Thus from us all our pleasures fly
Whereon we set our heart; And when the night of death draws nigh,
Thus will they all depart.
Lord ! though the sun forsake our sight,
And mortal hopes are vain ; Let still Thine everlasting light
Within our souls remain ! And in the nights of our distress
Vouchsafe those rays divine, Which from the Sun of Righteousness
For ever brightly shine !
George Wither. 1641.
Accept, my God, my evening song, Like incense let it fragrant rise ;
Stir up mine heart, and tune my tongue, And let the music reach the skies.
Thou hast my kind protector been Through all the dangers of the day;
My guardian to defend from sin, My guide to choose me out my way.
The flowing spring of all my good, Still pouring blessings from on high ;
Thine hand hath dealt me out my food, For every want a kind supply.