Thomas Kingo

(1634-1703 / Denmark)

Morning Song - Poem by Thomas Kingo

From eastern quarters now
The sun 's up-wandering,
His rays on the rock's brow
And hill's side squandering ;
Be glad, my soul ! and sing amidst thy pleasure,
Fly from the house of dust,
Up with thy thanks, and trust
To heaven's azure !

O, countless as the grains
Of sand so tiny,
Measureless as the main's
Deep waters briny,
God's mercy is, which he upon me showereth !
Each morning, in my shell,
A grace immeasurable
To me down-poureth.

Thou best dost understand,
Lord God ! my needing,
And placed is in thy hand
My fortune's speeding,
And thou foresees! what is for me most fitting ;
Be still, then, O my soul !
To manage in the whole
Thy God permitting !

May fruit the land array,
And corn for eating !
May truth e'er make its way,
With justice meeting!
Give thou to me my share with every other,
Till down my staff I lay,
And from this world away
Wend to another !

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Poem Submitted: Saturday, October 9, 2010

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