Bower of Prayer

To leave my dear friends, and with neighbors to part,

And go from my house it affects not my heart,

Like the thought of absenting myself for a day

From that bless'd retreat where I've chosen to pray, I've chosen to pray.

Sweet bower where the pine and the poplar have spread,

And woven their branches a roof o'er my head,

How oft have I knelt on the evergreen there,

And poured out my soul to my Saviour in prayer, my Saviour in prayer.

The early shrill notes of a loved nightingale

That dwelt in my bower, I observed as my bell

To call me to duty while birds in the air

Sung anthems of praise as I went to prayer.

T'was under the covert of that pleasant grove

That Jesus was pleased my guilt to remove,

Presented himself as the only true way

Of life and salvation, and taught me to pray.

How sweet were the zephyrs perfumed with the pine,

The ivy, the balsam, the wild eglantine;

But sweeter, oh, sweeter, superlative were

The joys that I tasted in answer to prayer.

For Jesus, my Saviour, oft deigned to meet,

And bless with his presence my humble retreat,

Oft filled me with rapture and blessedness there,

Inditing in heaven's own language my prayer.