When the sun is high in heaven,
On the first day of the seven,
And the merry church-bells ringing,
Call the people in to prayer;
In my chamber sick and lonely
I lie weary, thinking only
Of the message and the music,
And the worship that are there.

For the bells are ringing still,
Over sea, and shore, and hill,
And the cities where the women
And the men go to and fro.
O the movement, O the pleasure,
As they answer to that measure!
O the weariness of wishing
That I too could rise and go.

Yet the bells will die away,
And the lips will cease to pray,
And the sunshine will not linger
On the valley and the street.
But I know there is a city
Where no sick child seeks for pity,
And where thousand harps are ringing
With a music more complete.

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