Sunday is a day distinct from any other.
It is burnished with boyhood scenes
Of home, silverware, and Mother.
They often superintend my dreams.
Mother got us ready for meeting,
Scrubbed to shine the night before.
None of us was worthy of greeting
Unless godly clean at the chapel door.
The day yet fosters a feeling unique.
I felt it even as an unlearned lad.
It gave me pause, it turned me meek.
It made me grateful for what I had.
Every Sunday morning without fail
And throughout the Sabbath hours.
The feeling reaches through the veil
Lifting me with Christ-borne powers.
Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2014
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