WHITSUNDAY. No. II. R. H. SPIRIT of Truth ! on this Thy day To Thee for help we cry, Of dark mortality! Or tongues of various tone; With fervour in our own. Is found on earth no more ; In Scripture's sacred lore. We neither have nor seek the power Ill demons to controul ; But Thou, in dark temptation's hour, Shalt chase them from the soul. No heavenly harpings soothe our ear, No mystic dreams we share; And bless Thee in our prayer. And knowledge empty prove, With Faith, with Hope, with Love ! TRINITY SUNDAY. R. H. Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ! Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee ; Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty ! God in three persons, blessed Trinity ! Holy, holy, holy ! all the saints adore Thee, Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea; Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee, Which wert and art, and evermore shalt be! Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee, Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see, Only Thou art holy, there is none beside Thee, Perfect in power, in love, and purity! Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty ! All Thy works shall praise Thy name in earth and sky and sea ; Holy, holy, holy! merciful and mighty ! God in three persons, blessed Trinity! FIRST SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. No. I. R. H. Room for the Proud ! Ye sons of clay From far his sweeping pomp survey, Nor, rashly curious, clog the way His chariot wheels before ! Lo! with what scorn his lofty eye Far from his palace door! Room for the Proud ! but slow the feet That bear his coffin down the street : And dismal seems his winding-sheet, Who purple lately wore ! Ah! where must now his spirit fly. Who shew'd it not before ! Room for the Proud! in ghastly state The lords of Hell his coming wait, And flinging wide the dreadful gate That shuts to ope no more. “ Lo here with us the seat,” they cry, “ For him who mock'd at Poverty, And bade intruding Conscience fly Far from his palace door!” FIRST SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. No. II. R. H. The feeble pulse, the gasping breath, The clenched teeth, the glazed eye, Are these thy sting, thou dreadful Death? O Grave, are these thy victory? The mourners by our parting bed, The wife, the children weeping nigh, The dismal pageant of the dead, These, these are not thy victory! But, from the much-loved world to part, Our lust untamed, our spirit high, All nature struggling at the heart, Which, dying, feels it dare not die! To dream through life a gaudy dream Of pride and pomp and luxury, Of burning, boundless agony; Whose love we past unheeded by; O grave, and this thy victory! O Searcher of the secret heart, Who deign’d for sinful man to die ! Restore us ere the spirit part, Nor give to hell the victory! |