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FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

Oh Thou, whom neither time nor space

Can circle in, unseen, unknown, Nor faith in boldest flight can trace,

Save through thy Spirit and thy Son !

And Thou that from thy bright abode,

To us in mortal weakness shown, Didst graft the manhood into God,

Eternal, co-eternal Son!

And Thou whose unction from on high

By comfort, light, and love is known ! Who, with the parent Deity,

Dread Spirit! art for ever one !

Great First and Last! thy blessing give!

And grant us faith, thy gift alone, To love and praise thee while we live,

And do whate'er thou would'st have done! SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

The Lord of might, from Sinai's brow,

Gave forth his voice of thunder ; And Israel lay on earth below,

Outstretch'd in fear and wonder. Beneath his feet was pitchy night, And, at his left hand and his right,

The rocks were rent asunder!

The Lord of love, on Calvary,

A meek and suffering stranger,
Upraised to heaven his languid eye,

In nature's hour of danger.
For us he bore the weight of wo,
For us he gave his blood to flow,

And met his Father's anger.

The Lord of love, the Lord of might,

The king of all created, Shall back return to claim his right,

On clouds of glory seated; With trumpet-sound and angel-song, And hallelujahs loud and long

O'er Death and Hell defeated !

GOOD FRIDAY.

Oh more than merciful! whose bounty gave
Thy guiltless self to glut the greedy grave!
Whose heart was rent to pay thy people's price,
The great High-priest at once and sacrifice!
Help, Saviour, by thy cross and crimson stain,
Nor let thy glorious blood be spilt in vain!

When sin with flow'ry garland hides her dart,
When tyrant force would daunt the sinking heart,
When fleshly lust assails, or worldly care,
Or the soul flutters in the fowler's snare,
Help, Saviour, by thy cross and crimson stain,
Nor let thy glorious blood be spilt in vain !

And, chiefest then, when nature yields the strife,
And mortal darkness wraps the gate of life,
When the poor spirit, from the tomb set free,
Sinks at thy feet and lifts its hope to thee
Help, Saviour, by thy cross and crimson stain !
Nor let thy glorious blood be spilt in vain !

EASTER DAY.

God is gone up with a merry noise

Of saints that sing on high ; With his own right hand and his holy arm

He hath won the victory!

Now empty are the courts of death,

And crush'd thy sting, despair : And roses bloom in the desert tomb,

For Jesus hath been there !

And he hath tamed the strength of hell,

And dragg'd him through the sky, And captive behind his chariot wheel,

He hath bound captivity!

with a merry

God is gone up

noise Of saints that sing on high ; With his own right hand and his holy arm

He hath won the victory !

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