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Sit thou on my right hand, my Son! saith

the Lord. Sit thou on my right hand, my Son,

Till in the fatal hour

Of my wrath, and my power,
Thy foes shall be a footstool to thy throne.


• Prayer shall be made to thee, my Son,' saith

the Lord. • Prayer shall be inade to thee, my Son,

From earth and air and sea,

And all that in them be,
Which thou for thine heritage hast won.'

Daily be thou praised, my Son,' saith the Lord. · Daily be thou praised, my Son.

And all that live and move,

Let them bless thy bleeding love, And the work which thy worthiness hath done.' WHITSUNDAY.

Spirit of Truth, on this thy day

To thee for help we cry ;
To guide us through the dreary way

Of dark mortality.
We ask not, Lord, thy cloven flame,

Or tongues of various tone;
But long thy praises to proclaim

With fervor in our own.
We mourn not that prophetic skill

Is found on earth no more;
Enough for us to trace thy will

In Scripture's sacred lore.
We neither have nor seek the power

Ill demons to control ;
But thou in dark temptation's hour,

Shalt chase them from the soul.
No heavenly harpings soothe our ear,

No mystic dreams we share;
Yet hope to feel thy comfort near,

And bless thee in our prayer.
When tongues shall cease and power decay,

And knowledge empty prove,
Do thou thy trembling servants stay

With faith, with hope, with love.


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.


Room for the proud! Ye sons of clay,
From far his sweeping poinp survey,
Nor, rashly curious, clog the way

His chariot wheels before.
Lo, with what scorn his lofty eye
Glances o’er age and poverty,
And bids intruding conscience fly

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
In naked, trembling agony ?
Or how shall be for mercy cry,

Who showed it not before.
Room for the proud ! in ghastly state
The lords of hell his coming wait,
And finging wide the dreadful gate.

That shuts to ope no more, · Lo here with us the seat,' they cry,

For him who mocked at poverty, And bade intruding conscience fly Far from his palace door.'


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,
Till wakened by the nearer gleam

Of burning, boundless agony ;
To meet o'er soon our angry King,

Whose love we passed unheeded by; Lo this, 0 Death, thy deadliest sting,

O Grave, and this thy victory. O Searcher of the secret heart,

Who deigned for sinful man to die, Restore us ere the spirit part,

Nor give to hell tbe victory.

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