Like morning—when her early breeze

Breaks up the surface of the seas,

That, in their furrows, dark with night,

Her hand may sow the seeds of light—

2 Thy grace can send its breathings o’er

The spirit dark and lost before;

And, freshening all its depths, prepare

For truth divine to enter there.

3 Till David touched his sacred lyre,

In silence lay the unbreathing wire;

But when he swept its chords along,

Then angels stooped to hear the song.

4 So sleeps the soul, till thou, O Lord,

Shall deign to touch its lifeless chord;

Till, waked by thee, its breath shall rise,

In music worthy of the skies.