1 To Thee, in youth’s bright morning
Father of all, we pray;
While thought and fancy dawning,
Lead on the rising day;
To Thee, in life’s last even,
We’ll tune our feebler breath;
Hear all our sins forgiven,
And softly sleep in death.

2 When from death’s sleep we waken,
No fears shall us surprise;
All earthly things forsaken,
What joys shall meet our eyes!
With rapture then increasing,
For ever we’ll rejoice;
And praises never ceasing,
Shall wake each tuneful voice.

3 Though vine nor fig tree either
Its fruit or leaves should bear;
Though all the fields should wither,
Nor flocks nor herds be there;
Yet God, the same abiding,
His praise shall tune my voice;
For while in Him confiding,
I cannot but rejoice.