'Tis sweet, as sinks the setting sun,
To think on all our duties done.
2Oh! evermore may all our bliss
Be peaceful, pure, divine, like this;
And may each Sabbath, as it flies,
Fit us for joy beyond the skies.
98. 8 & 7s. M. Toplady's Coll.
Dismission.
1Lord, dismiss us with thy blessing,
Hope and comfort from above;