Sure if our eyes were purged to trace God’s unseen armies hovering round, We should behold by angels’ grace The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound, Their downward sweep a moment stayed On ocean cove and forest glade, Till the last flower of autumn shed Her funeral odours on her dying bed. So in Thine awful armoury, Lord, The lightnings of the judgment-day Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored, Till willing hearts wear quite away Their earthly stains; and spotless shine On every brow in light divine The Cross by angel hands impressed, The seal of glory won and pledge of promised Little they dream, those haughty souls Whom empires own with bended knee, What lowly fate their own controls, Together linked by Heaven’s decree;— As bloodhounds hush their baying wild To wanton with some fearless child, So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes, Till some repenting heart be ready for the skies. Think ye the spires that glow so bright In front of yonder setting sun, Stand by their own unshaken might? No—where th’ upholding grace is won, We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell, But sure from many a hidden dell, From many a rural nook unthought of there, Rises for that proud world the saints’ prevailing prayer. On, Champions blest, in Jesus’ name, Short be your strife, your triumph full, Till every heart have caught your flame, And, lightened of the world’s misrule, Ye soar those elder saints to meet Gathered long since at Jesus’ feet, No world of passions to destroy, Your prayers and struggles o’er, your task all praise and joy. Holy Communion. O GOD of Mercy, God of Might, How should pale sinners bear the sight, If, as Thy power in surely here, Thine open glory should appear? For now Thy people are allowed To scale the mount and pierce the cloud, And Faith may feed her eager view With wonders Sinai never knew. Fresh from th’ atoning sacrifice The world’s Creator bleeding lies. That man, His foe, by whom He bled, May take Him for his daily bread. O agony of wavering thought When sinners first so near are brought! “It is my Maker—dare I stay? My Saviour—dare I turn away?” Thus while the storm is high within ’Twixt love of Christ and fear of sin, Who can express the soothing charm, To feel Thy kind upholding arm, My mother Church? and hear thee tell Of a world lost, yet loved so well, That He, by whom the angels live, His only Son for her would give? And doubt we yet? Thou call’st again; A lower still, a sweeter strain; A voice from Mercy’s inmost shrine, This very breath of Love divine.