Sweet is the sun­light af­ter rain,
And sweet the sleep which fol­lows pain,
And sweet­ly steals the Sab­bath rest
Upon the world’s work-wear­ied breast.

Of Heav­en the sign—of earth, the calm!
The poor man’s birth­right and his balm!
God’s wit­ness of ce­les­ti­al things!
A sun with heal­ing in its wings!

New ris­ing in this Gos­pel time;
And in its se­ven­fold light sub­lime,
Blest day of God! we hail the dawn,
To gra­ti­tude and wor­ship drawn.

Through this hot world, from week to week
’Twere vain the soul’s re­pose to seek,
But on the Sab­bath’s rest­ful air
Is na­ture’s voice­less call to pray­er.

O’er all the qui­et land­scape spreads
A hush, like that which ev­en­ing sheds
When sounds are still, and flow­ers are furled,
And sha­dows wrap the slum­ber­ing world.

As birds which, scared by sound of wars,
Fly up to nest among the stars,
But come to their fa­mil­iar tree
When earth to list their song is free;

So ho­ly thoughts will flee the breast
By tra­vail of the week op­pressed,
But when the psalms of Sab­bath rise,
Will hast­en down­ward from the skies.

But e’en the Sab­bath charms to cheat,
Unless the an­swer­ing soul is meet,
No rest the hal­lowed hours im­part,
Save on­ly to the hal­lowed heart.

Whether our faith in tem­ples pleads,
Or love is bent on du­te­ous deeds;
Or lin­ger­ing sick­ness gasps and pines
For meek­est trust in God’s d­esigns.

Or err­ing steps are kind­ly borne
From scenes of shame, or seats of scorn;
Whene’er we come with cov­en­ant new,
O Sav­ior! teach us to be true.

Oh, naught of gloom and naught of pride
Should with the sac­red hours ab­ide;
At work for God—in loved em­ploy,
We lose the du­ty in the joy.

Breathe on us, Lord! our sins for­give,
And make us strong in faith to live;
Our ut­most, sor­est need sup­ply,
And make us strong in faith to die.