This is the day that God hath made.
Eternal peace each hour entwines;
No erring sense may dare invade,
Nor measure aught that He defines.
Time's day is but a transient thought,
The jest of joy, the badge of pain;
It urges age we have not sought;
It robs of youth we should retain.
God's day is ours when thought within
Is single in its purpose pure;
When we defy the claims of sin,
The snares of sense which would allure.
No more shall months or solar years
Attest the birth or growth of man;
As we lay off our doubts and fears,
We glimpse the day that ne'er began.
God's measurement of good declares
There is no death, no law that sears
The flowers of Truth for which He cares;
Unchanged they bloom through joy-filled years.
