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The Sundaies of man's life,
Thredded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
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The Sundaies of man's life,
Thredded together on time's string,
Make bracelets to adorn the wife
Of the eternal, glorious King.
On Sunday heaven's gates stand ope;
Blessings are plentiful and rife.
More plentiful than hope.
Gently on tiptoe Sunday creeps,
Cheerfully from the stars he peeps,
Mortals are all asleep below,
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Gently on tiptoe Sunday creeps,
Cheerfully from the stars he peeps,
Mortals are all asleep below,
None in the village hears him go;
E'en chanticleer keeps very still,
For Sunday whispered, 'twas his will.
Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven
What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
Thou art my single day, God lends to leaven
What were all earth else, with a feel of heaven.
Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
Day of the Lord, as all our days should be!
The sabbaths of Eternity.
One sabbath deep and wide.
The sabbaths of Eternity.
One sabbath deep and wide.
And he said unto them, The sabbath was made for man, and not man
for the sabbath:
Therefore read more
And he said unto them, The sabbath was made for man, and not man
for the sabbath:
Therefore the Son of man is Lord also of the sabbath.
Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday--
But what is read more
Now, really, this appears the common case
Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday--
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?
On Sundays, at the matin-chime,
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
Climb up here to pray;
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On Sundays, at the matin-chime,
The Alpine peasants, two and three,
Climb up here to pray;
Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,
Ride out to church from Chamberry,
Dight with mantles gay,
But else it is a lonely time
Round the Church of Brou.
How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The read more
How still the morning of the hallow'd day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.