ON Sabbath morn, one feels
Exalted 'bove the world, and longs to go
Forth to the house of God; and, as the slow
And solemn church-chime on him steals,
He seems to tread the height
Of Heaven, rise with his risen Lord, and there
Pour out his soul in never-ceasing prayer,
And worship with the saints in light.
And peace, and joy, and faith
Are his, and all things that the earth contains,
And all above, through the Redeemer's pains,
And groans, and victory o'er death!
Glory to Him who willed
That man should live, not die! to Him who made
The Sabbath for our comfort, and who said
The soul on Christ its hopes should build!