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THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
Washed the leper's stain away,
Hear us, help us, when we pray.
From the filth of vice and folly,
From infuriate passion's rage,
Heedless youth and selfish age;
From the lusts whose deep pollutions
Adam's ancient taint disclose,
Restless doubt and blind repose ;
From the miser's cursed treasure,
From the drunkard's jest obscene,
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
0, Jesus, once tossed on the breast of the billow,
And 0, 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
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?
0, 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 inany a tear Through endless years the guilt must moan of moments lost and wasted here.' O Thou, by all thy works adored, To whoin the sinner's soul is dear, Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord, And grant us grace to please thee here.
O God, by whom the seed is given;
Preserve it from the passing feet,
Though buried deep or thinly strown,
THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.
VIRGIN-born, we bow before thee;
Blessed was the breast that fed thee,
Blessed she by all creation,
Virgin-born, we bow before thee;