FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
ABASHED be all the boast of age, Be hoary learning dumb, Expounder of the mystic page, Behold an infant come.
O Wisdom, whose unfading power Beside the Eternal stood,
To frame, in nature's earliest hour, The land, the sky, the flood;
Yet didst not Thou disdain awhile An infant form to wear;
To bless thy mother with a smile, And lisp thy faltered prayer.
But, in thy Father's own abode, With Israel's elders round, Conversing high with Israel's God, Thy chiefest joy was found.
So may our youth adore thy name, And, Saviour, deign to bless With fostering grace the timid flame Of early holiness.
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; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God.
By cool Siloam's shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man's maturer age,
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, And stormy passion's rage.
O Thou, whose infant feet were found Within thy Father's shrine,
Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned Were all alike divine,
Dependent on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age and death, To keep us still thine own.
SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
O, hand of bounty, largely spread, By whom our every want is fed, Whate'er we touch, or taste, or see, We owe them all, O Lord, to thee; The corn, the oil, the purple wine, Are all thy gifts, and only thine.
The stream thy word to nectar dyed, The bread thy blessing multiplied, The stormy wind, the whelming flood, That silent at thy mandate stood, How well they knew thy voice divine, Whose works they were, and only thine.
Though now no more on earth we trace Thy footsteps of celestial grace, Obedient to thy word and will We seek thy daily mercy still; Its blessed beams around us shine, And thine we are, and only thine.
INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell
In lowly shape and cottage cell, Didst not refuse a guest to be At Cana's poor festivity :
O, when our soul from care is free, Then, Saviour, may we think on Thee, And seated at the festal board,
In Fancy's eye behold the Lord.
Then may we seem, in Fancy's ear, Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear, And think,-even now, thy searching gaze Each secret of our soul surveys!
So may such joy, chastised and pure, Beyond the bounds of earth endure ; Nor pleasure in the wounded mind Shall leave a rankling sting behind.
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,
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; A wish the heart distressing; For Adam was alone. O, God of pure affection, By men and saints adored, Who gavest thy protection To Cana's nuptial board, May such thy bounties ever
To wedded love be shown,
And no rude hand dissever
Whom thou hast linked in one.
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