SUNDAY in the country—that’s how we spent the day,
Drinking in the perfume of the fragrant breath of May;
Gazing at the splendors of the meadows and the hills,
Laughing with the babbling brooks and singing with the rills,
Dancing with the sunbeams and smiling with the skies,
And worshiping the Master with our hearts and minds and eyes.
Sunday in the country—with an arch of blue above,
And the green trees whispering to us simple messages of love;
With the song birds singing anthems just as sacred and as sweet
And as stirring and uplifting as the church choir down the street;
In God’s own great cathedral, where the poorest man may go,
And catch a glimpse of Heaven as he journeys here below.
Sunday in the country—that’s how we spent the day,
And we thanked God every minute for His precious gifts of May;
For the green trees waving o’er us as the shady lanes we strolled,
For the silver of the waters and the sunbeams’ yellow gold,
For the fragrance of the lilacs and the apple trees in bloom,
For the glory of the sunshine and the blossoms’ sweet perfume.
Sunday in the country—till the shades of night came down,
When we turned our faces homeward and we journeyed back to town;
Back to all the ceaseless striving in the dreary haunts of men,
To the constant quest for money with its anguish once again,
But with faith in God above us, and serene contentment, too,
For our hearts were drenched with gladness as the fields are drenched with dew.
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