When the worn spirit wants repose

When the worn spirit wants repose,
And sighs her God to seek,
How sweet to hail the hours that close
The labors of the week!

How sweet to hail the Sabbath-day,
The day of holy rest;
From earth's wild cares to soar away
To regions pure and blest.

Sweet day! thine hours too soon will cease;
Yet, while they gently roll,
Breathe, heavenly Spirit, source of peace,
A sabbath o'er my soul.

Soon 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.