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SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.
John I. THE Lord will come, the earth shall quake, The hills their fixed seat forsake ; And, withering, from the vault of night The stars withdraw their feeble light.
The Lord will come, but not the same
The Lord will come, a dreadful form, With wreath of flame, and robe of storm, On cherub wings, and wings of wind, Anointed Judge of human-kind.
Can this be He who wont to stray
Go, tyrants, to the rocks complain,
IN the sun and moon and stars
Earth shall quake with inward wars,
Soon shall ocean's hoary deep,
Darker storms the mountain sweep,
Evil thoughts shall shake the proud,
And amid the thunder cloud
But though from that awful face
Fear not ye, his chosen race,
THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT. MATT. x 1. O, Saviour, is thy promise fled * No longer might thy grace endure, To heal the sick and raise the dead, And preach thy gospel to the poor 2 Come, Jesus, come, return again; With brighter beam thy servants bless, Who long to feel thy perfect reign, And share thy kingdom's happiness. A feeble race, by passion driven, In darkness and in doubt we roam, And lift our anxious eyes to heaven, Our hope, our harbor, and our home.
Yet, 'mid the wild and wintry gale,
And strength and earthly daring fail,
Come, Jesus, come, and, as of yore
THE FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT.
THE world is grown old, and her pleasures are past; The world is grown old, and her form may not last ; The world is grown old, and trembles sor fear; For sorrows abound and judgment is near.
The sun in the heaven is languid and pale ;
And feeble and few are the fruits of the vale ;
And the hearts of the nations fail them for fear,
For the world is grown old, and judgment is neal".
The king on his throne, the bride in her bower,
The world is grown old,—but should we complain,
Who have tried her and know that her promise is vain *
Our heart is in heaven, our home is not here,
And we look for our crown when judgment is near.
O, Saviour, whom this holy morn
To mortal want and labor born,
Incarnate Word, by every grief,
Who lives to yield our ills relief,
If gaily clothed and proudly fed,
Remind us of thy manger bed,
If pressed by poverty severe,
O may thy spirit whisper near,
Through fickle fortune’s various scene
Like us thou hast a mourner been,