Hymns and Odes for Charity Occasions VII

Father of lights! we bless each ray Shot from thy throne to lead the blind; With song we hail the holy day That's dawning on the youthful mind. Gone is the gloom! the cold eclipse, In which the ignorant at thee gaze, Has passed; and now from infant lips Art thou, O God, "perfecting praise." Bishop of souls, whose arms were spread, To clasp and bless such little ones, On these be thine own spirit shed, That they may be thy Father's sons! Friends of the young, whose toils are o'er, Taste ye in heaven a purer bliss, Or one that now ye cherish more, Than that which comes from days like this? Author of life! when death's cold hand Is gently on our eyelids pressed, May sorrowing children round us stand,-- The children whom our cares have blessed.