The the worn spirit wants repose,

And sighs her God to seek,

How sweet to hail the evening’s close,

That ends the weary week!

2 How sweet to hail the early dawn

That opens on the sight,

When first that soul-reviving morn

Sheds forth new rays of light!

3 Sweet day! thine hours too soon will cease;

Yet while they gently roll,

Breathe, gracious Lord, thou source of peace,

A Sabbath o’er my soul!

4 When will my pilgrimage be done,

The world’s long week be o’er:

That Sabbath dawn, which needs no sun,

That day, which fades no more!