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O DAY most calm, most bright,
The other days and thou Make up one man; whose face thou art, Knocking at heaven with thy brow: The workydays 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 heaven's palace arched lies:
And hollow room with vanities,
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;
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,
Leaping with thee from seven to seven,
Fly hand in hand to heaven!
SEE the chariot at hand here of love,
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
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