THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT. OH Saviour, is Thy promise fled? Come, Jesus! come! return again; A feeble race, by passion driven, In darkness and in doubt we roam, Yet, 'mid the wild and wintry gale, 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 heavenly shower Our stony hearts for truth prepare ; Sow in our souls the seed of power, Then come and reap Thy harvest there! FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT. THE world is grown old, and her pleasures are past; 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 complain, CHRISTMAS DAY. OH Saviour, whom this holy morn Gave to our world below ; To mortal want and labour born, And more than mortal woe! Incarnate Word! by every grief, Who lived to yield our ills relief, If gaily clothed and proudly fed, If prest by poverty severe, Through fickle fortune's various scene From sin preserve us free! Like us thou hast a mourner been, ST. STEPHEN'S DAY. THE Son of God goes forth to war, Who follows in His train? Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain, Who patient bears his cross below, He follows in His train! The martyr first, whose eagle eye Like Him, with pardon on his tongue He pray'd for them that did the wrong! A glorious band, the chosen few Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, They met the tyrant's brandish'd steel, The lion's gory mane; They bow'd their necks the death to feel! Who follows in their train? A noble army-men and boys, They climb'd the steep ascent of Heaven, Oh God! to us may grace be given To follow in their train! ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST'S DAY. OH God! who gav'st Thy servant grace, Amid the storms of life distrest, To look on Thine incarnate face, And lean on Thy protecting breast: To see the light that dimly shone, Be ours, O King of Mercy! still To hear Thy voice and know Thy love: And when the toils of life are done, Он weep INNOCENTS' DAY. not o'er thy children's tomb! O Rachel, weep not so; The bud is cropt by martyrdom, E |