If The Church Of England Were To

And Help Us, This And Every Day, To Live More Nearly As We Pray.

The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden, That Earliest Wedding Day.

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.

Look In, And See Christ's Chosen Saint In Triumph Wear His Christ-like Chain; No Fear Lest He Should Swerve Or Faint; "his Life Is Christ, His Death Is Gain.

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