The Sunday bells are knolling slow,
The Summer morn how fair,
While father, mother, children, go,—
And seek the house of prayer.
Some musing roam the church-yard round
Some turn their head with sighs,
And gaze upon the new-made ground,
Where Old Giles Summers lies.
But see the Pastor in his band,
The bells have ceas’d to knoll,
Now enter, and at God’s command,
Think, Christian, of thy soul.
Whilst heav’nly hopes around thee shine,
As in God’s presence live,
And calmer comforts shall be thine,
Than all the world can give.