My God, who makes the sun to know

His proper hour to rise,

And to give light to all below,

Doth send him round the skies.

When from the chambers of the east

His morning race begins,

He never tires, nor stops to rest,

But round the world he shines.

So, like the sun, would I fulfill

The business of the day:

Begin my work betimes, and still

March on my heavenly way.

Give me, O Lord, thy early grace,

Nor let my soul complain

That the young morning of my days

Has all been spent in vain.

A MEAN BOY. A NAUGHTY PUMPKIN'S FATE. facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail