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O, Saviour, whom this holy morn
Gave to our world below,

To mortal want and labor born,
And more than mortal wo;

Incarnate Word, by every grief,
By each temptation tried,

Who lives to yield our ills relief,
And to redeem us died ;

If gaily clothed and proudly fed,
In dangerous wealth we dwell,

Remind us of thy manger bed,
And lowly cottage cell.

If pressed by poverty severe,
In envious want we pine,

O may thy spirit whisper near,
How poor a lot was thine.

Through fickle fortune's various scene
From sin preserve us free;

Like us thou hast a mourner been,
May we rejoice with thee.


THE Son of God goes forth to war,
Akingly crown to gain;
His blood-red banner streams afar;
Who follows in his train 2
Who best can drink his cup of wo,
Triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below,
He follows in his train.

The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave;
Who saw his Master in the sky,
And called on him to save.
Like Him, with pardon on his tongue
In midst of mortal pain,
He prayed for them that did the wrong.
Who follows in his train

A glorious band, the chosen few,
On whom the spirit came;

Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,
And mocked the cross and flame.

They met the tyrant's brandished steel,
The lion's gory mane:

They bowed their necks the death to feel.
Who follows in their train :

A noble army—men and boys,
The matron and the maid,
Around the Saviour's throne rejoice,
In robes of light arrayed.
They climbed the steep ascent of Heaven,
Through peril, toil, and pain.
O God, to us may grace be given
To follow in their train.

ST JoHN THE EvangeliST’s DAY.

O God, who gav’st thy servant grace,
Amid the storms of life distressed,

To look on thine incarnate face,
And lean on thy protecting breast:

To see the light that dimly shone,
Eclipsed for us in sorrow pale,

Pure Image of the Eternal One,
Through shadows of thy mortal veil.

Be ours, O King of mercy, still
To feel thy presence from above,

And in thy word, and in thy will,
To hearthy voice and know thy love;

And when the toils of life are done,
And nature waits thy dread decree,

To find our rest beneath thy throne,
And look, in humble hope, to Thee.


O weep not o'er thy children's tomb,
O Rachel, weep not so :

The bud is cropt by martyrdom,
The flower in heaven shall blow.

Firstlings of faith, the murderer's knife
Has missed its deadliest aim :

The God for whom they gave their life,
For them to suffer came.

Though feeble were their days and few, Baptized in blood and pain,

He knows them, whom they never knew, And they shall live again.

Then weep not o'er thy children's tomb,
O Rachel, weep not so :

The bud is cropt by martyrdom,
The flower in heaven shall blow.

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