Come, praise the Lord, Whose love assigns
So sweet a rest to weary minds;
Provides an antepast of heaven
And gives this day the food of seven.

O that our thoughts and thanks may rise
As grateful incense to the skies!
And draw from Heaven that sweet repose
Which none but he who feels it knows.

A heavenly calm pervades the breast
Is the dear pledge of glorious rest,
Which for the Church of God remains,
The end of cares, the end of pains.

With joy, great God, Thy works we view,
In various scenes, both old and new;
With praise we think on mercies past,
With hope we future pleasure taste.

In holy duties let the day,
In holy comforts pass away;
The Sabbath thus we love to spend,
In hope of one which ne'er shall end.