SABBATH MORNING by W. Maxwell

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Sep 4, 1893

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 19, No. 43.

SABBATH MORNING.

By W. Maxwell

How SWEET to him the Sabbath morning hours Whose soul is by the living waters led! The dawn of day and breath of dewy flowers, What light and fragrance round his home they shed!

That sunburnt sire, free from his week-day toil, Beneath his roof tree sits, transfigured there; Around his Bible, prized 'yond earthly spoil, His hands are clasped, though in speechless prayer.

Some promise sparkling on the precious page Sheds o'er his furrowed face a light serene; Celestial joys his soaring thoughts engage— His faith is gazing on the things unseen.

The household altar and the gates of praise He loves, still jealous lest earth's cares invade; His heart e'en now the grateful song doth raise To Him whose grace this hallowed day hath made.

What though the morrow's dawn bring sweat and toil, And earth afford him but a frugal fare? Content and glad, his store in heaven the while, He hails the never-ending Sabbath there.

Blest day, where labor, save for simple needs, Nor sloth, nor folly, mars thy holy calm; Thrice blest the toiler in thy light who reads His claim to rest beside the reigning Lamb.

O happy world, when men, at God's command, With reverend welcome greet the heaven-born guest! What ills shall fly our fair but fevered land When for her healing comes true Sabbath rest! —W. Maxwell.