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THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
Matt. vm.

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;

From the lusts whose deep pollutions
Adam's ancient taint disclose,

From the tempter's dark intrusions,
Restless doubt and blind repose;

From the miser's cursed treasure,
From the drunkard's jest obscene,

From the world, its pomp and pleasure,
Jesus, Ma-ter, 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.'

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.'

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SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY.

The God of Glory walks his round,
From day to day, from year to year,
And warns us each with awful sound,
'No longer stand ye idle here.

'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
That wait on life's declining year,
Secure a blessing for your age,
And work your Maker's business here.

'And ye, whose locks of scanty gray
Foretell your latest travail near,
How swiftly fades your worthless day,
And stand ye yet so idle here?

'One hour remains, there is but one,
But many a shriek and many a tear
Through endless years the guilt must moan
Of moments lost and wasted here.'

O Thou, by all thy works adored,
To whom the sinner's soul is dear,
Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord,
And grant us grace to please thee here.

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SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY.

O God, by whom the seed is given;

By whom the harvest blessed;

Whose word like manna showered from heaven,

Is planted in our breast;

Preserve it from the passing feet,
And plunderers of the air;
The sultry sun's intenser heat,
And weeds of worldly care;

Though buried deep or thinly strown,
Do thou thy grace supply;
The hope in earthly furrows sown
Shall ripen in the sky.

THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.

ViBGiu-born, we bow before thee;
Blessed was the womb that bore thee;
Mary, mother meek and mild,
Blessed was she in her child.

Blessed was the breast that fed thee,
Blessed was the hand that led thee,
Blessed was the parent's eye
That watched thy slumbering infancy.

Blessed she by all creation,
Who brought forth the world's salvation,
And blessed they, for ever blessed,
Who love thee most and serve thee best.

Virgin-born, we bow before thee;
Blessed was the womb that bore thee;
Mary, mother meek and mild,
Blessed was she in her child.

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