Give Us Grace To Listen Well.

When The Shore Is Won At Last, Who Will Count The Billow Past?

Sprinkled Along The Waste Of Years Full Many A Soft Green Isle Appears: Pause Where We May Upon The Desert Road, Some Shelter Is In Sight, Some Sacred Safe Abode.

Soft As Memnon's Harp At Morning, To The Inward Ear Devout, Touched By Light, With Heavenly Warning Your Transporting Chords Ring Out. Every Leaf In Every Nook, Every Wave In Every Brook, Chanting With A Solemn Voice Minds Us Of Our Better Choice.

Once You Make Up Your Mind Never To Stand Waiting And Hesitating When Your Conscience Tells You What You Ought To Do, And You Have Got The Key To Every Blessing That A Sinner Can Reasonably Hope For.

New Every Morning Is The Love Our Waking And Uprising Prove, Through Sleep And Darkness Safely Brought, Restored To Life And Power And Thought.