---

George Herbert - Sunday
Work rating: Low

       O Day most calm, most bright 
The fruit of this, the next world`s bud, 
Th` endorsement of supreme delight, 
Writ by a friend, and with his bloud; 
The couch of Time; Care`s balm and bay: 
The week were dark, but for thy light: 
       Thy torch doth show the way. 

       The other dayes and thou 
Make up one man; whose face thou art, 
Knocking at heaven with thy brow: 
The worky-daies are the back-part; 
The burden of the week lies there, 
Making the whole to stoup and bow, 
       Till thy release appeare. 

       Man had straight forward gone 
To endlesse 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. 

       Sundaies the pillars are, 
On which heav`n`s palace arched lies: 
The other dayes fill up the spare 
And hollow room with vanities. 
They are the fruitfull beds and borders 
In God`s rich garden: that is bare, 
       Which parts their ranks and orders. 

       The Sundaies of man`s life, 
Thredded together on Time`s string, 
Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
Of the eternall glorious King. 
On Sunday heaven`s gate stands ope; 
Blessings are plentifull and rife, 
       More plentifull then hope. 

       This day my Saviour rose, 
And did inclose this light for his: 
That, as each beast his manger knows, 
Man might not of his fodder misse. 
Christ hath took in this piece of ground, 
And made a garden there for those 
       Who want herbs for their wound. 

       The rest of our Creation 
Our great Redeemer did remove 
With the same shake, which at his passion 
Did th` earth and all things with it move. 
As Samson bore the doores away, 
Christ`s hands, though nailed, wrought our salvation, 
       And did unhinge that day. 

       The brightnesse of that daye 
We sullied by our foul offence: 
Wherefore that robe we cast away, 
Having a new at his expense, 
Whose drops of bloud paid the full price, 
That was requir`d to make us gay, 
       And fit for Paradise. 

       Thou art a day of mirth: 
And where the week-dayes trail on ground, 
Thy flight is higher, as thy birth:
O let me take thee at the bound, 
Leaping with thee from sev`n to sev`n, 
Till that we both, being toss`d from earth, 
       Flie hand in hand to heav`n!
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.