1 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!

2 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.

3 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.

4 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.