Who shall yet return from high, EPIPHANY, BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on his cradle the dew drops are shining, Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall, Angels adore him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would his favour secure : Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. LUKE II. ABASHED be all the boast of age! Behold an Infant come! Oh, Wisdom, whose unfading power Yet didst not Thou disdain awhile An infant form to wear; With Israel's elders round, So may our youth adore thy name! FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose! Lo! such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod; By cool Siloam's shady rill The rose that blooms beneath the hill And soon, too soon, the wint'ry hour Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, O Thou, whose infant feet were found Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned, Dependent on thy bounteous breath, We seek thy grace alone, In childhood, manhood, age and death, SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. The stream thy word to nectar dyed, Though now no more on earth we trace FOR THE SAME. INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell Oh, when our soul from care is free, Then may we seem, in Fancy's ear, So may such joy, chastised and pure, FOR THE SAME. WHEN on her Maker's bosom When all with fruit and flowers No sin his face defiling, The heir of Nature stood, And God, benignly smiling, Beheld that all was good! Yet in that hour of blessing, A single want was known; Oh, God of pure affection! To wedded love be shown, Whom thou hast linked in one. From the lusts whose deep pollutions From the miser's cursed treasure, From the drunkard's jest obscene, From the world, its pomp and pleasure, Jesus! Master! make us clean! FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. WHEN through the torn sail the wild tempest is streaming, When o'er the dark wave the red lightning is gleaming, Nor hope lends a ray the poor seamen to cherish, We fly to our Maker-" Help, Lord! or we perish!" Oh, Jesus! once tossed on the breast of the billow, Aroused by the shriek of despair from thy pillow, Now, seated in glory, the mariner cherish, Who cries in his danger-" Help, Lord! or we perish!" And oh, when the whirlwind of passion is raging, When hell in our heart his wild warfare is waging, Arise in thy strength thy redeemed to cherish, Rebuke the destroyer-" Help, Lord! or we perish!" SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY. "Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright, "Oh, as the griefs ye would assuage THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. That wait on life's declining year, MATT. VIII. LORD! whose love, in power excelling, Washed the leper's stain away. Jesus! from thy heavenly dwelling, Hear us, help us, when we pray! From the filth of vice and folly, From infuriate passion's rage, Evil thoughts and hopes unholy, Heedless youth and selfish age; Secure a blessing for your age, "And ye, whose locks of scanty gray "One hour remains, there is but one! QUINQUAGESIMA. LORD of mercy and of might, Jesus, hear and save! Jesus, hear and save! Strong, Creator, Saviour mild, Humbled to a mortal child, Captive, beaten, bound, reviled, Jesus, hear and save! Throned above celestial things, Borne aloft on angels' wings, Lord of lords, and King of kings, Jesus, hear and save! Soon to come to earth again, Judge of angels and of men, Hear us now, and hear us then, Jesus, hear and save! THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT. Blessed was the breast that fed thee! Blessed was the parent's eye Who brought forth the world's salvation! Virgin-born! we bow before thee! FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT. OH, King of earth and air and sea! To thee the lions roaring call, Then grant thy servants, Lord! we pray, The fishes may for food complain; Thy bounteous hand with food can bless And oh, when through the wilds we roam Do thou thy gracious comfort give, FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT. On Thou, whom neither time nor space Can circle in, unseen, unknown, Nor faith in boldest flight can trace, Save through thy Spirit and thy Son! And Thou that from thy bright abode, To us in mortal weakness shown, Didst graft the manhood into God, Eternal, co-eternal Son! And Thou whose unction from on high By comfort, light, and love is known! Who, with the parent Deity, Dread Spirit! art for ever one! Great First and Last! thy blessing give! SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT. THE Lord of might, from Sinai's brow, Gave forth his voice of thunder; And Israel lay on earth below, Outstretched in fear and wonder. Beneath his feet was pitchy night, And, at his left hand and his right, The rocks were rent asunder! The Lord of love, on Calvary, A meek and suffering stranger, And met his Father's anger. The Lord of love, the Lord of might, The king of all created, Shall back return to claim his right, On clouds of glory seated; With trumpet-sound and angel-song, And hallelujahs loud and long O'er Death and Hell defeated! Now empty are the courts of death, And he hath tamed the strength of hell, God is gone up with a merry noise With his own right hand and his holy arm FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. LIFE nor Death shall us dissever Sin may seek to snare us, Their fangs against us try; But his might shall still defend us, Comfort ere we die! GOOD FRIDAY. ASCENSION DAY, AND SUNDAY AFTER. "SIT thou on my right hand, my Son!" saith the Lord. "Sit thou on my right hand, my Son! Till in the fatal hour Of my wrath and my power, Thy foes shall be a footstool to thy throne! Prayer shall be made to thee, my Son!" saith the Lord. OH more than merciful! whose bounty gave EASTER DAY. GOD is gone up with a merry noise Of saints that sing on high; With his own right hand and his holy arm He hath won the victory! "Prayer shall be made to thee, my Son! Which thou for thine heritage hast won!" And all that live and move, Let them bless thy bleeding love, And the work which thy worthiness hath done!" WHITSUNDAY. SPIRIT of Truth! on this thy day To thee for help we cry; To guide us through the dreary way Of dark mortality! |