Henry Francis Lyte (1793-1847)

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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, O 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:
you never change, O Lord; abide with me.

I need your presence every passing hour;
what but your grace can foil the tempter’s power?
Who like yourself my guide and stay can be?
Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.

I fear no foe with you at hand to bless;
ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death’s sting? Where, grave, your victory?
I triumph still if you abide with me.

Hold, Lord, your 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, O Lord, abide with me.