The Sabbath bells are knolling slow,
The summer morn how fair!
Whilst father, mother, children go,
And seek the house of prayer.
Some, musing, roam the churchyard round,
Some turn their heads with sighs,
And gaze upon the new-made ground
Where old Giles Summers lies.
But see the pastor in his band,
The bells have ceased to knoll;
Now enter, and at God's command,
Think, Christian, of thy soul.
Whilst heavenly hopes around thee shine,
As in God's presence live,
And calmer comforts shall be thine,
Than all the world can give.