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Abide with me; fast falls the eventide:
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide:
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the Helpless, 0 abide with me.
Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
Earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away;
Change and decay in all around I see:
0 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, Lord, abide with me.
I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless;
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s 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:
Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee;
In life, in death 0 Lord, abide with me.
H. F. Lyte
(1793 – 1847)
