The Good-Morrow

I took thy contours into my design
And papered them against the walls of light,
For that good-morrow round the rocks we find.
For this, O Lord, may it be a gift divine
To call our echoes from the night
To life—they sing thy name in every voice
As every rock and tree shall bless, rehearse
In prayerful praise what lovely things should be
For rose brings dew from the break of morn.

• George Herbert