 | New songs of innocence |  |
18
SUNDAY.
This is Sunday morning;
Beneath a smiling sky,
All in their best adorning,
The folks go thronging by.
‘Vanity!’ is the preacher's
Calvinistic cry;
‘We're miserable creatures,
And only born to die!
Beneath a smiling sky,
All in their best adorning,
The folks go thronging by.
‘Vanity!’ is the preacher's
Calvinistic cry;
‘We're miserable creatures,
And only born to die!
Delight on earth's a fiction
That pious hearts decline;
The water of affliction
To us must taste divine.’
I wonder if he thinks so
When he sits down to dine?
I wonder why he drinks so
His costly earthly wine?
That pious hearts decline;
The water of affliction
To us must taste divine.’
I wonder if he thinks so
When he sits down to dine?
I wonder why he drinks so
His costly earthly wine?
The sky is blue, my Willie,
The sun shines out o'erhead
As they leave the churchyard chilly,
Whose breath is of the dead.
And some will look to heaven,
But some will look to earth,
And spend the holy even
In mad oblivious mirth.
The sun shines out o'erhead
As they leave the churchyard chilly,
Whose breath is of the dead.
And some will look to heaven,
But some will look to earth,
And spend the holy even
In mad oblivious mirth.
| New songs of innocence | |