T HERE'S music in the morning air,
 A holy voice and sweet,
Far calling to the House of Prayer
 The humblest peasant's feet.
From hill, and vale, and distant moor,
 Long as the chime is heard,
Each cottage sends its tenants poor
 For God's enriching Word.

Where'er the British power hath trod,
 The cross of faith ascends,
And, like a radiant arch of God,
 The light of Scripture bends!
Deep in the forest wilderness
 The wood-built church is known;
A sheltering wing, in man's distress,
 Spread like the Saviour's own!

The warrior from his armed tent,
 The seaman from the tide,
Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent
 In Christian nations wide,—
Thousands and tens of thousands bring
 Their sorrows to His shrine,
And taste the never-failing spring
 Of Jesus' love divine!

If, at an earthly chime, the tread
 Of million, million feet
Approach whene'er the Gospel's read
 In God's own temple-seat,
How blest the sight, from Death's dark sleep,
 To see God's saints arise;
And countless hosts of angels keep
 The Sabbath of the skies!