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Ah, this way bend thy benign flood,

for blood;

To a bleeding heart that gasps
That blood whose least drop sovereign be
To wash my worlds of sins from me!
Come, love! come, Lord! and that long day
For which I languish, come away;

When this dry soul those eyes shall see,
And drink the unseal'd source of Thee;
When glory's sun faith's shade shall chase,
Then for Thy veil give me Thy face. Amen.

THE HYMN FOR THE BLESSED SACRAMENT

LAUDA SION SALVATOREM.

ISE, royal Sion! rise and sing

Thy soul's kind shepherd, thy heart's King
Stretch all thy powers, call, if you can,

Harps of heav'n to hands of man—

This sovereign subject sits above

The best ambition of thy love.

Lo, the bread of life! this day's
Triumphant text provokes Thy praise-
The living and life-giving bread

To the great twelve distributed,
When Life Himself at point to die,
Of Love, was his own legacy.

Come, Love! and let us work a song
Loud and pleasant, sweet and long;
Let lips and hearts lift high the noise
Of so just and solemn joys,

Which on His white brows this bright day
Shall hence for ever bear away.

Lo, the new law of a new Lord, With a new Lamb blesses the board! The aged Pascha pleads not years, But spies love's dawn, and disappears. Types yield to truths, shades shrink away, And their night dies into our day.

But, lest that die too, we are bid
Ever to do what he once did;
And, by a mindful, mystic breath,
That we may live, revive His death;
With a well-blest bread and wine
Transumed and taught to turn divine.

The heav'n-instructed house of faith Here a holy dictate hath,

That they but lend their form and face, Themselves with reverence leave their place, Nature and name, to be made good

By nobler bread, more needful blood.

Where Nature's laws no leave will give,
Bold faith takes heart, and dares believe
In different species, name not thing3,

Himself to me my Saviour brings,
As meat in that, as drink in this;
But still in both one Christ He is.

The receiving mouth here makes
Nor wound nor breach in what He takes.
Let one, or one thousand be

Here dividers, single he

Bears home no less, all they no more,
Nor leave they both less than before.

Though in itself this sovereign feast
Be all the same to every guest,
Yet on the same, life-meaning, bread
The child of death eats himself dead.
Nor is't Love's fault, but sin's dire skill

That thus from life can death distil.

When the blest signs thou broke shalt see, Hold but thy faith entire as He,

Who, howsoe'er clad, cannot come

Less than whole Christ in every crumb.
In broken forms a stable faith

Untouch'd her precious total hath.

Lo, the life-food of angels then

Bow'd to the lowly mouths of men!
The childrens' bread, the bridegroom's wine,

Not to be cast to dogs or swine.

Lo, the full, final sacrifice

On which all figures fix'd their eyes,

The ransom'd Isaac and his ram,

The manna, and the Paschal Lamb!

Jesu, Master, just and true!

Our food, and faithful Shepherd too!
O, by Thyself vouchsafe to keep,

As with Thyself Thou feed'st Thy sheep.

O, let that love which thus makes Thee
Mix with our low mortality,

Lift our lean souls, and set us up
Convictors of Thine own full cup,

Co-heirs of saints, that so all may
Drink the same wine, and the same way;
Nor change the pasture, but the place,

To feed of Thee in Thine own face! Amen.

THE HYMN "DIES IRE DIES ILLA."
In Meditation of the Day of Judgment.

EAR'ST thou, my soul, what serious things
Both the Psalm and Sibyl sings,

Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray

The world in flames shall fly away?

O, that Fire! before whose face Heav'n and earth shall find no place : O, these Eyes! whose angry light Must be the day of that dread night,

O, that Trump! whose blast shall run An even round with th' circling sun,

And

urge the murmuring graves to bring Pale mankind forth to meet his King.

Horror of nature, hell and death!
When a deep groan from beneath

Shall cry,
"we come, we come," and all
The caves of night answer one call.

O, that Book! whose leaves so bright
Will set the world in severe light.
O, that Judge! whose hand, whose eye
None can endure, yet none can fly.

Ah, then, poor soul! what wilt thou say? And to what patron choose to pray, When stars themselves shall stagger, and The most firm foot no more than stand?

But Thou giv'st leave, dread Lord, that we Take shelter from Thyself in Thee;

And with the wings of Thine own dove
Fly to Thy sceptre of soft love!

Dear, remember in that day

Who was the cause Thou cam'st this way; Thy sheep was stray'd, and Thou wouldst be Even lost Thyself in seeking me!

Shall all that labour, all that cost Of love, and even that loss, be lost?

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