The Gift of Sunday
Sunday
by George Herbert
O day most calm, most bright,
The fruit of this, the next world’s bud,
The endorsement of supreme delight,
Writ by a friend, and with his blood;
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 days and thou
Make up one man; whose face thou art,
Knocking at heaven with thy brow:
The work-days are the back-part;
The burden of the week lies there,
Making the whole to stoop and bow,
Till the release appear. . . .
Sundays the pillars are,
On which heaven’s palace arched lies:
The other days fill up the spare
And hollow room with vanities.
They are the fruitful beds and borders
In God’s rich garden: that is bare,
Which parts their ranks and orders.