Oft in death's shadowy vale, like screen of night,
Before life's Sun the driving cloud-mists blow;
No way lies open to the halls of light,
The passes stand deep blocked by drifted snow;
Lord, ever let Thy heavens unclouded shine;
Lighten Thy pilgrim's eyes with light divine.
Oft in the narrow rock-girt paths of life,
The weary will would fail, the strength would flee;
I stagger weakened by the unceasing strife,
Fainting I fall, unless Thou succour me:
What time the o'erburdened spirit dreads defeat,
O champion her, Thou heavenly Paraclete.
Oft mid the noisy tumult of the world
No more I hear the angels' healing song,
Only the torrents' threatening roar, where hurled
In rapids time's swift stream is borne along:
Lord, o'er the surge of waters rude and wild,
Grant me to hear Thy call, "My child! My child!"
When o'er mine eyelids steals the long last sleep,
Thy face's unveiled glory would I see;
The weary flesh seeks rest in slumber deep,
With might, O let my spirit strengthened be.
Earth's voices fade; deep mid the peace of heaven,
Speak, Lord, the assuring words, "Arise, forgiven!"
