There is an hour of calm relief
From every throbbing care;
‘Tis when, before a throne of grace,
I kneel in secret prayer.

Oh, that Voice to me so dear,
Breathing soft on my ear:
Weary child, look up and see,
‘Tis thy Savior speaks to thee.

When one by one, like threads of gold,
The hues of twilight fall;
Oh, sweet communion with my God,
My Savior and my all!

I hear seraphic tones that float
Amid celestial air,
And bathe my soul in streams of joy,
Alone in secret prayer.

Oh, when the hour of death shall come,
How sweet from thence to rise,
With prayer on earth my latest breath,
My watchword to the skies.

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