When morning in russet and saffron clad

Is mantling the hills in a dew-soft plaid

To the song of the moorland two-wings glad

Let my heart upraise;

When light creeps in through the chinks of the door

When the mist ascends from the mountain floor,

When the ocean shimmers like burnished ore.

Let me give thee praise.

O God of the morning, Christ of the hills,

O Spirit who all the firmament fills.

O Trinity blest who all goodness wills,

Keep us all our days.

The smallest crust may save a human life,

The smallest act may lead to human strife,

The smallest touch may cause the body pain,

The smallest spark may fire a field of grain,

The smallest deed may tell the truly brave,

The smallest skill may serve a life to save,

The slightest shock may make a heart to grieve,

Nought is so small that it may not contain

The rose of pleasure or the thorn of pain.

The summer sun is sinking low,

Only the tree-tops redden and glow;

Only the weather-cock on the spire

Of the village Church is a flame of fire;

All is in shadow below.

H W Longfellow