« ZurückWeiter »
THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT.
MATT, XI. 0, Saviour, is thy promise fled ?
No longer might thy grace endure, To heal the sick and raise the dead,
And preach thy gospel to the poor? Come, Jesus, come, return again;
With brighter beam thy servants bless, Who long to feel thy perfect reign,
And share thy kingdom's happiness. A feeble race, by passion driven,
In darkness and in doubt we roam, And lift our anxious eyes to heaven,
Our hope, our harbor, and our home. Yet, ʼmid the wild and wintry gale,
When death rides darkly o'er the sea, And strength and earthly daring fail, Our
prayers, Redeemer, rest on thee. Come, Jesus, come, and, as of yore
The prophet went to clear thy way, A harbinger thy feet before,
A dawning to thy brighter day : So now may grace with hcavenly shower
Our stony heasts for truth prepare; Sow in our souls the seed of power,
Then come and reap thy harvest there.
THE FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT.
The world is grown old, and her pleasures are
past; The world is grown old, and her form may not
The world is grown old, and trembles for fear; For sorrows abound and judgment is near.
The sun in the heaven is languid and pale ;
The king on his throne, the bride in her bower,
The world is grown old,—but should we com
plain, Who have tried her and know that her promise
is vain ? Our heart is in heaven, our home is not here, And we look for our crown when judgment is
0, Saviour, whom this holy morn
Gave to our world below,
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,
How poor a lot was thine.
Through fickle fortune's various scene
From sin preserve us free;
May we rejoice with thee.
ST STEPHEN'S DAY.
The Son of God goes forth to war,
A kingly crown to gain;
Who follows in his train ?
Triumphant over pain,
He follows in his train.
The martyr first, whose eagle eye
Could pierce beyond the grave;
And called on him to save.
In midst of mortal pain,
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.