Grandly isolate as the god of day—
Blazing an orbit through the dank and gloom
Of misty morning, far and fair you loom,
Flooding the dimness with your golden ray—
Cheering the mantled on the thorn-set way,
Teaching of Faith and Hope o’er the tomb,
Where both, though buried, spring to newer bloom—
Strengthened and sweet from the mound of decay.
Soft! strains of Sanctus we lift on the air,
Ere Nunc Dimittus at last shall be sung,
Sing we our Sanctus to fitly declare
Blessings that well up from hearts sorely wrung.
Lead, lead us on o’er the furthermost stair—
Light of our impotence! Joy of our tongue!