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Sunday, 7 December 2025

Morning song - 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 foreseest 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!

Thomas Kingo (1634-1703) Denmark
Translated by Charles Beckwith
Source: The Poets And Poetry Of Europe by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1887

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