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 miser's cursed treasure, 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.' O, Jesus, once tossed on the breast of the billow, perish.' Help, Lord, or we And O, 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, '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? 'O, 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 'One hour remains, there is but one, O Thou, by all thy works adored, SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY. O God, by whom the seed is given; Whose word like manna showered 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 strown, Do thou thy grace supply; The hope in earthly furrows sown THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT. VIRGIN-born, we bow before thee; Blessed was she in her child. Blessed was the breast that fed thee, That watched thy slumbering infancy. Blessed she by all creation, Who brought forth the world's salvation, And blessed they, for ever blessed, Who love thee most and serve thee best. Virgin-born, we bow before thee; Blessed was the womb that bore thee; Mary, mother meek and mild, Blessed was she in her child. |