Thou, Saviour, from thy throne on high,

Enrobed with light, and girt with power,

Dost note the thought, the prayer, the sigh,

Of hearts that love the tranquil hour.

2 Oft thou thyself didst steal away,

At eventide, from labor done,

In some still peaceful shade to pray,

Till morning watches were begun.

3 Thou hast not, dearest Lord, forgot

Thy wrestlings on Judea’s hills;

And still thou lovest the quiet spot

Where praise the lowly spirit fills.

4 Now to our souls, withdrawn awhile

From earth’s rude noise, thy face reveal,

And, as we worship, kindly smile,

And for thine own our spirits seal.

5 To thee we bring each grief and care,

To thee we fly while tempests lower;

Thou wilt the weary burdens bear

Of hearts that love the tranquil hour.