 | Thoughts in Verse |  |
PLYMOUTH CHOIR.
Softly the choir is singing,
Singing their evening hymn;
Sweet as the breath of morning,
Ascends the strain to Him:
Day in the west is dying,
Heaven touches earth with rest,—
Now are His people waiting,
Waiting to be blest.
Singing their evening hymn;
Sweet as the breath of morning,
Ascends the strain to Him:
Day in the west is dying,
Heaven touches earth with rest,—
Now are His people waiting,
Waiting to be blest.
List to that sweet soprano
Voice, like a bird of June,
Pure are the tones and mellow,
Lovely are words and tune.
Lord, 'neath the dome of Heaven,
Thy providence we trace,
And with our sins forgiven,
We seek thy lovely face.
Voice, like a bird of June,
Pure are the tones and mellow,
Lovely are words and tune.
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Thy providence we trace,
And with our sins forgiven,
We seek thy lovely face.
Thus in His holy Temple,
Gathered for praise and prayer,
Blessed indeed, His people,—
Neither more blest elsewhere.
With joy sing holy, holy,
Unto our God and king;
Yes, unto our gracious Saviour,
Our Lord, most holy, sing.
Gathered for praise and prayer,
Blessed indeed, His people,—
Neither more blest elsewhere.
With joy sing holy, holy,
Unto our God and king;
Yes, unto our gracious Saviour,
Our Lord, most holy, sing.
So shall His earthly temple,
Be type of that above,
Where gather every people,
To sing Redeeming Love,—
And, with their voices blending
In one triumphant strain,
They sing through years unending,
The lamb for us was slain!
Be type of that above,
Where gather every people,
To sing Redeeming Love,—
And, with their voices blending
In one triumphant strain,
They sing through years unending,
The lamb for us was slain!
| Thoughts in Verse | |