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The Book of Praise.
The other days and thou Make up one man ; whose face thou art, Knocking at Heaven with thy brow: The working days are the back part; The burden of the week lies there, Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till thy release appear.
Man had straight forward gone To endless death ; but thou dost pull And turn us round to look on One, Whom, if we were not very dull, We could not choose but look on still, Since there is no place so alone,
The which He doth not fill!
Sundays the pillars are On which Heav'n's palace arched lies: The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities : They are the fruitful beds and borders Of God's rich garden ; that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.
The Sundays of man's life, Threaded together on time's string, Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternal glorious King : On Sunday Heaven's gate stands ope ; Blessings are plentiful and rife,
More plentiful than hope.
This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for His ; That, as each beast his manger knows, Man might not of his fodder miss : |
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