SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

NO. III.

WHEN on her Maker's bosom

The new-born Earth was laid,
And Nature's opening blossom
Its fairest bloom display'd;

When all with fruit and flowers
The laughing soil was drest,
And Eden's fragrant bowers
Received their human guest;

No sin his face defiling,

The heir of nature stood,
And God, benignly smiling,
Beheld that all was good!

Yet, in that hour of blessing,
A single want was known;
A wish the heart distressing;
For Adam was alone!

Oh God of pure affection!
By men and saints adored,
Who gavest Thy protection
To Cana's nuptial board;

May such Thy bounties ever

To wedded love be shown,

And no rude hand dissever

Whom Thou hast link'd in one!

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

LORD! whose love, in power excelling,
Wash'd the leper's stain away,
Jesus! from Thy heavenly dwelling,
Hear us, help 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.

NO. I.

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!"

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

NO. II.

THE winds were howling o'er the deep,

Each wave a watʼry hill,

The Saviour waken'd from His sleep,

He spake and all was still.

The madman in a tomb had made

His mansion of despair;
Woe to the traveller who stray'd
With heedless footstep there!

The chains hung broken from his arm,
Such strength can hell supply,
And fiendish hate, and fierce alarm
Flash'd from his hollow eye.

He met that glance so thrilling sweet,
He heard those accents mild,

And, melting at Messiah's feet,
Wept like a weaned child.

Oh madder than the raving man !

Oh deafer than the sea;

How long the time since Christ began

To call in vain on me?

He call'd me when my thoughtless prime
Was early ripe to ill;

I pass'd from folly on to crime,
And yet He call'd me still.

He call'd me in the time of dread,
When death was full in view,
I trembled on my feverish bed,
And rose to sin anew!

Yet could I hear Him once again

As I have heard of old,

Methinks He should not call in vain
His wanderer to the fold.

Oh Thou that every thought canst know,
And answer every prayer;
Oh give me sickness, want, or woe,
But snatch me from despair!

My struggling will by grace controul,

Renew my broken vow!

What blessed light breaks on my soul? O God! I hear Thee now.

SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY.

THE God of Glory walks His round,
From day to day, from year to year,
And warns us each with awful sound,

"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 grey Foretell latest travail near,

your

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!"

O 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!