THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

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Matt. VIII.

LORD! whose love, in power excelling,

Wash'd the leper's stain away,
Jesus ! from thy heavenly dwelling,

Hear us, tlp us, when we pray!

From the filth of vice and folly,

From infuriate passion's rage,
Evil thoughts and hopes unholy,

Heedless youth and selfish age ;

From the lusts whose deep pollutions

Adam's ancient taint disclose,
From the tempter's dark intrusions,

Restless doubt and blind repose ;

From the miser's cursed treasure,

From the drunkard's jest obscene,
From the world, its pomp and pleasure,

Jesus ! Master ! make us clean!

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

WHEN through the torn sail the wild tempest is

streaming, When o’er the dark wave the red lightning is

gleaming, Nor hope lends a ray the poor seamen to cherish, We fly to our Maker~" Help, Lord! or we

perish!"

Oh, Jesus! once toss'd on the breast of the billow,
Aroused by the shriek of despair from thy pillow,
Now, seated in glory, the mariner cherish,
Who cries in his danger—" Help, Lord ! or we

perish!”

And oh, when the whirlwind of passion is raging, When hell in our heart his wild warfare is waging, Arise in thy strength thy redeemed to cherish, Rebuke the destroyer“ Help, Lord! or we

perish !"

SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY.

The God of glory walks his round,
From day to day, from year to year,
And warns us each with awful sound,
“No longer stand ye idle here!

• Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright,
Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear,
Waste not of hope the morning light!
Ah, fools ! why stand ye idle here?

- Oh, as the griefs ye would assuage
That wait on life's declining year,
Secure a blessing for your age,
And work your Maker's business here!

“ And ye, whose locks of scanty gray Foretell

latest travail near, How swiftly fades your worthless day! And stand ye yet so idle here?

“One hour remains, there is but one !
But many a shriek and many a tear
Through endless years the guilt must moan
Of moments lost and wasted here !”

Oh Thou, by all thy works adored,
To whom the sinner's soul is dear,
Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord !
And grant us grace to please thee here !

SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY.

Oh, God! by whom the seed is given ;
By whom the harvest blest;
Whose word like manna shower'd from heaven,
Is planted in our breast;

Preserve it from the passing feet,
And plunderers of the air ;
The sultry sun's intenser heat,
And weeds of worldly care;

Though buried deep or thinly strewn,
Do thou thy grace supply ;
The hope in earthly furrows sown
Shall ripen in the sky !