THERE'S music in the morning air, 

A holy voice and sweet, 

Far calling to the house of prayer 

The humblest peasant's feet. 

From hill and vale and distant moor, 

Long as the chime is heard, 

Each cottage sends its tenants poor 

For God's enriching word. 

The warrior from his armed tent, 

The seaman from his tide, 

Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent 

In Christian nations wide, — 

Thousands and tens of thousands bring 

Their sorrows to His shrine, 

And taste the never-failing spring 

Of Jesus' love divine! 

If, at an earthly chime, the tread 

Of million, million feet 

Approach where'er the Gospel's read 

In God's own temple seat, 

How blessed the sight, from death's dark sleep 

To see God's saints arise; 

And countless hosts of angels keep 

The Sabbath of the skies! 

—Charles Swain