Lord of the Sab­bath, hear us pray,
In this Your house, on this Your day;
And own, as grate­ful sac­ri­fice,
The songs which from Your tem­ple rise.

Now met to pray and bless Your name,
Whose mer­cies flow each day the same;
Whose kind com­pas­sions nev­er cease,
We seek in­struct­ion, par­don, peace.

Your eart­hly Sab­baths, Lord, we love,
But there’s a nob­ler rest above;
To that our la­bor­ing souls as­pire
With ar­dent hope and strong de­sire.

In Your blest king­dom we shall be
From ev­ery mor­tal trou­ble free;
No sighs shall min­gle with the songs
Resounding from im­mor­tal tongues.

No rude alarms of rag­ing foes;
No cares to break the long re­pose;
No mid­night shade, no wan­ing moon,
But sac­red, high, eter­nal noon.

O long ex­pect­ed day, be­gin,
Dawn on these realms of woe and sin!
Break, morn of God, up­on our eyes;
And let the world’s true Sun arise!