O DAY most calm, most bright, SUNDAY. The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, 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 heaven's palace arched lies: The other days fill up the spare And hollow room with vanities, They are the fruitful beds and borders In 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. SUNDAY. This day my Saviour rose, And did enclose this light for His; And made a garden there for those The rest of our creation Our great Redeemer did remove With the same shake, which at His passion Christ's hands, though nail'd, wrought our salvation, The brightness of that day We sullied by our foul offence : Having a new at His expense, Whose drops of blood paid the full price, And fit for paradise. Thou art a day of mirth: And where the week-days trail on ground, O let me take thee at the bound, Fly hand in hand to heaven ! GEORGE HERBERT. SEE the chariot at hand here of love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, As she goes all hearts do duty And enamour'd do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that love's world compriseth! Do but look on her, she is bright As love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother |