Abide with me, fast falls the even tide
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
O Thou, who changest not, abide with me.
I need Thy presence every passing hour
What but Thy grace can foil
The temper’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, O Lord, abide with me.
About the Author:
Henry Francis Lyte
(1793-1847)
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