Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
Earthís joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see;
O thou who changest not, abide with me.
I need thy presence every passing hour;
What but thy grace can foil the tempter's power?
Who like thyself my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me.
I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is deathís sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies:
Heavenís morning breaks, and earthís vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!
Henry Francis Lyte (1793-1847)
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