Music by Wiliam B. Bradbury, 1859  (1816-1868)

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

That calls me from a world of care,

And bids me at my Father’s throne

Make all my wants and wishes known.

In seasons of distress and grief,

My soul has often found relief

And oft escaped the tempter’s snare

By thy return, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

Thy wings shall my petition bear

To Him whose truth and faithfulness

Engage the waiting soul to bless.

And since He bids me seek His face,

Believe His Word and trust His grace,

I’ll cast on Him my every care,

And wait for thee, sweet hour of prayer!

Sweet hour of prayer! sweet hour of prayer!

May I thy consolation share,

Till, from Mount Pisgah’s lofty height,

I view my home and take my flight:

This robe of flesh I’ll drop and rise

To seize the everlasting prize;

And shout, while passing through the air,

“Farewell, farewell, sweet hour of prayer!”

This hymn first appeared in The New York Observer, September 13, 1845, accompanied by the following, which was written by Thomas Salmon: "During my residence at Coleshill, Warwickshire, England, I became acquainted with W. W. Walford, the blind preacher, a man of obscure birth and connections and no education, but of strong mind and most retentive memory. In the pulpit he never failed to select a lesson well adapted to his subject, giving chapter and verse with unerring precision and scarcely ever misplacing a word in his repetition of the Psalms, every part of the New Testament, the prophecies, and some of the histories, so as to have the reputation of “knowing the whole Bible by heart.” He actually sat in the chimney corner, employing his mind in composing a sermon or two for Sabbath delivery, and his hands in cutting, shaping and polishing bones for shoe horns and other little useful implements. At intervals he attempted poetry. On one occasion, paying him a visit, he repeated two or three pieces which he had composed, and having no friend at home to commit them to paper, he had laid them up in the storehouse within. “How will this do?” asked he, as he repeated the following lines, with a complacent smile touched with some light lines of fear lest he subject himself to criticism. I rapidly copied the lines with my pencil, as he uttered them, and sent them for insertion in the Observer, if you should think them worthy of preservation."