Henry Francis Lyte
Henry Francis Lyte was a Scottish Anglican divine and hymn-writer.
Henry Francis Lyte was born to Thomas and Anna Maria Lyte on a farm at Ednam, near Kelso, Scotland. Thomas deserted the family shortly after making arrangements for his two oldest sons to attend Portora Royal School in Enniskillen, County Fermanagh; and Anna moved to London, where both she and her youngest son died.
The headmaster at Portora, Dr. Robert Burrowes, recognized Henry Lyte's ability, paid the boy’s fees, and "welcomed him into his own family during the holidays." Lyte was effectively an adopted son.
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Henry Francis Lyte Poems
God of Mercy, God of Grace
God of mercy, God of grace, Show the brightness of Thy face: Shine upon us, Saviour, shine, Fill Thy church with light Divine;
Abide With Me
Abide with us: for it is towards evening, and the day is far spent. -- Luke xxiv.29 Abide with me! Fast falls the Eventide;
A Lost Love
I meet thy pensive, moonlight face; Thy thrilling voice I hear; And former hours and scenes retrace, Too fleeting, and too dear!
Far From My Heavenly Home
Far from my heavenly home, Far from my Father’s breast, Fainting I cry, blest Spirit, come And speed me to my rest.
There Is a Safe and Secret Place
There is a safe and secret place, Beneath the wings divine, Reserved for all the heirs of grace; O be that refuge mine!
Praise, My Soul, the King of Heaven
Praise, my soul, the King of Heaven; To His feet Thy tribute bring! Ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven, Who like me His praise should sing?
Praise the Lord, God's Glories Show
Praise the Lord, God’s glories show, Alleluia! Saints within God’s courts below, Alleluia! Angels round the throne above, Alleluia! All that see and share God’s love, Alleluia!
Jesus, I My Cross Have Taken
Jesus, I my cross have taken, all to leave and follow Thee. Destitute, despised, forsaken, Thou from hence my all shall be. Perish every fond ambition, all I’ve sought or hoped or known. Yet how rich is my condition! God and heaven are still mine own.
When at Thy Footstool, Lord, I Bend
When at Thy footstool, Lord, I bend, And plead with Thee for mercy there, Think of the sinner’s dying Friend, And for His sake receive my prayer.
Why do I sigh to find Life's evening shadows gathering round my way? The keen eye dimming, and the buoyant mind Unhinging day by day?
Pleasant Are Thy Courts Above
Pleasant are Thy courts above, In the land of light and love; Pleasant are Thy courts below In this land of sin and woe;
O That the Lord's Salvation
O that the Lord’s salvation Were out of Zion come, To heal His ancient nation, To lead His outcasts home!
Praise For Thee, Lord, in Zion Waits
Praise for Thee, Lord, in Zion waits; Prayer shall besiege Thy temple gates; All flesh shall to Thy throne repair, And find through Christ salvation there.
My God, my King, Thy Praise I Sing
My God, my King, Thy praise I sing, My heart is all Thine own; My highest powers, my choicest hours, I yield to Thee alone.
Comments about Henry Francis Lyte
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
God of Mercy, God of Grace
God of mercy, God of grace,
Show the brightness of Thy face:
Shine upon us, Saviour, shine,
Fill Thy church with light Divine;
And Thy saving health extend,
Unto earth's remotest end.
Let Thy people praise Thee, Lord;
Be by all that live adored;
Let the nations shout and sing,
Glory to their Saviour King;
At Thy feet their tributes pay,
And Thy holy will obey.
Let the people praise Thee, Lord;
Earth shall then her fruits afford;
God to man His blessing give,
Man to God devoted live;
All below, and all above,
One in joy, ...