Sweet Is The Infant's Waking Smile, And

Pride Of The Dewy Morning, The Swain's Experienced Eye From Thee Takes Timely Warning. Nor Trusts The Gorgeous Sky.

If The Church Of England Were To Fail, It Would Be Found In My Parish

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

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

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.