When Adam his first Sunday kept,
It dawn'd on work, and not on rest;
Yet when he laid him down and slept,
No travail sore his soul opprest;
Work, easy as an angel's flight,
Brought slumber as an infant's, light

Upon the ground he casts him now,
The ground, accursed for his sake;
The chill damps on his weary brow,
And even in sleep his heart will ache.
If to his fellow-men he call,
There is the curse of Babel's wall.

But thou the Lord's new Eden seek,
The garden-mount where olives grow,
There prostrate lies a Sufferer meek,
Go, bathe thee in His Sweat, — and lo!
Thou, as at first, shalt rise renewed,
For Jesus' sweat is healing Blood.

Thy work a blessed pastime then
Shall prove, — thy rest a sacred song;
The Babel-cries of scattered men
Attuned to anthems pure and strong.
The treasures of King Solomon
For holy Church redeem'd and won.