1 Our day of praise is done; The evening shadows fall; But pass not from us with the sun, True Light that light'nest all. 2 Around the throne on high, Where night can never be, The white-robed harpers of the sky Bring ceaseless hymns to Thee. 3 Too faint our anthems here; Too soon of praise we tire: But O the strains how full and clear Of that eternal choir! 4 Yet, Lord, to Thy dear will If Thou attune the heart, We in Thine angels' music still May bear our lower part. 5 'Tis Thine each soul to calm, Each wayward thought reclaim, And make our life a daily psalm Of glory to Thy Name. 6 A little while, and then Shall come the glorious end; And songs of angels and of men In perfect praise shall blend.