Classic Poem

'Twas on this day our Saviour rose
Triumphant over all his foes;
This day our grateful songs we'll raise,
And join to celebrate his praise.
This day from labour gives release,
And bids our cares and passions cease;
God claims our time as all his own,
And we must live for him alone.
First to the house of solemn pray'r,
With decent steps let us repair,
And tremble with a sacred awe,
Whilst near to God himself we draw.
This is his house,—thy ev'ry thought,
And ev'ry word to him devote;
Far hence be ev'ry thought profane,
And ev'ry wicked word, or vain!
Let pious calm prevail around,
For now we tread on holy ground.
But hark! the voice of praise I hear,
That steals upon my ravish'd ear;
The sacred incense mounts on high,
And breathes its odours to the sky.
What sacred raptures fire my breast!
Sure God himself is now confest!
What transports in my bosom swell,
Can pen describe, or language tell?
Say, infidels, boast ye a bliss,
That bears to be compar'd with this?
Without religion what remains
In reason's eye, that's worth our pains?