THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. MATT. VIII. LORD! whose love, in power excelling, From the filth of vice and folly, From the lusts whose deep pollutions From the tempter's dark intrusions, 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, 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, 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 How swiftly fades your worthless day! “One hour remains, there is but one! Oh Thou, by all thy works adored, 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! |