The Sabbath by Carlos Wilcox

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Washington, D. C. · May 12, 1904

The Sabbath

By Carlos Wilcox

SABBATHS, like way-marks, cheer the pilgrim's path, His progress mark, and keep his rest in view. In life's bleak winter, they are pleasant days, Short foretaste of the long, long spring to come.

To every new-born soul, each hallowed morn Seems like the first, when everything was new. Time seems an angel come afresh from heaven, His pinions shedding fragrance as he flies, And his bright hour-glass running sands of gold.

In everything a smiling God is seen. On earth his beauty blooms, and in the sun His glory shines. In objects overlooked On other days, he now arrests the eye. Not in the deep recesses of his works, But on their face, he now appears to dwell.

While silence reigns among the works of man, The works of God have leave to speak his praise With louder voice, in earth, and air, and sea.

His vital Spirit, like the light, pervades All nature, breathing round the air of heaven, And spreading o'er the troubled sea of life A halcyon calm. Sight were not needed now

To bring him near; for faith performs the work; In solemn thought surrounds herself with God, With such transparent vividness she feels Struck with admiring awe, as if transformed To sudden vision. Such is oft her power In God's own house, which, in the absorbing act Of adoration, or inspiring praise, She with his glory fills, as once a cloud Of radiance filled the temple's inner court.

— Carlos Wilcox.