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Sunday

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!

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George Herbert

George Herbert (3 April 1593 – 1 March 1633)[1] was a Welsh-born poet, orator, and priest of the Church of England. His poetry is associated wit…

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