Itís the glory of the rising sun
To wake the world when night is done.
Itís the freshness of the morning dew
Glittering bright with a radiant hue.
Itís the cooing of the morning dove
Caressing his mate with strains of love.
Itís the laughter of the pebbly brook
Stretching far through quiet woodland nook.
Itís the stirring of the placid breeze
Sweeping sweetly through the summer leaves.
Itís the lofty hills and mountain peaks
The quiet valleys and hidden creeks.
Itís the roses spread upon the gate,
Blooming sweet Ďtill evening time is late.
Itís the blushing hues of twilight sky,
Spreading rosy curtains far and nigh.
Itís the chatter of the eveningís frogs,
Hidden near the darkling willow bogs.
Itís the sweetness of the moonbeams,
Casting silver rays on muríming streams.
Itís the knowledge that my Fatherís hand
Has wrought these wonders in sea and land.
Itís delighting in these gifts of love
Sustained each day by His hand above.
This is peace; that quiet, hidden rest
Knowing from whose hand I am thus blest.
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