Knocking on the farmer’s door
On Sunday, asks may hunter kill
The deer that wander through the wood?
Permission given? Not or will
That used to be the Lord’s own sun
But now such mindfulness declines
For those who never knew, forgot
That what is God’s is never mine
To use for fun, for some weak grace,
Amusement taken for self-ease,
Reflection of my own pale face
In nature’s mirror to self-please
But most of all that Name, His day
To be kept sacred—go away!