« AnteriorContinuar »
FOR THE SAME, WHEN on her Maker’s bosom The new-born earth was laid, And nature's opening blossom Its fairest bloom displayed; When all with fruit and flowers The laughing soil was dressed, And Eden's fragrant bowers Received their human guest;
No sin his face defiling,
O, God of pure affection,
THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. MATT. VIII.
LoRD, whose love, in power excelling,
Jesus, from thy heavenly dwelling,
From the filth of vice and folly,
Evil thoughts and hopes unholy,
From the lusts whose deep pollutions
From the tempter's dark intrusions,
From the miser's cursed treasure,
From the world, its pomp and pleasure,
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.’
O, 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 O, 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.’
SEPTUAGES IMA SUNDAY.
THE God of Glory walks his round,
* Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright," Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear, Waste not of hope the morning light, Ah, fools, why stand ye idle here?
‘O, as the griefs ye would assuage
“And ye, whose locks of scanty gray
* One hour remains, there is but one,
O Thou, by all thy works adored,
SEXAGES IMA SUNDAY.
O God, by whom the seed is given;
Preserve it from the passing feet,
Though buried deep or thinly strown,