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The Book of Praise.
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!
William Wordsworth. 1834.
Father ! by Thy love and power, Comes again the evening hour : Light has vanished, labours cease, Weary creatures rest in peace. Thou, whose genial dews distil
On the lowliest weed that grows, Father ! guard our couch from ill,
Lull Thy children to repose : We to Thee ourselves resign, Let our latest thoughts be Thine !
Saviour ! to Thy Father bear This our feeble evening prayer ; Thou hast seen how oft to-day We, like sheep, have gone astray: Worldly thoughts, and thoughts of pride, Wishes to Thy Cross untrue,