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Who receives this heavenly token
Has it all uncut, unbroken,
Still entire to cheer his soul.
Though one or one thousand takes it,
This as much as that partakes it,
Unconsum'd, complete, and whole.
To good or bad alike 'tis given;
But with fortune most uneven,
Death or life from thence ensues.
The bad take death, the good a blessing.
See what difference wide, distressing,
From a like reception flows.
Were it sever'd, broke, or parted,
Doubt not; take it even-hearted;
By a fragment is imparted
All the sacrament supplies.
Christ himself is whole as ever-
'Tis the sign alone you sever,
Whence the latent virtue never
Knoweth change of state or size.
See the bread of angels lying
On our altars--still supplying
Food to pilgrims worn and dying;
Food for sons for dogs unmeet.
Holy writings erst enroll'd it.
In Isaac's sacrifice behold it,
The Jewish paschal lamb foretold it,
And the desert manna sweet.
Oh, good Shepherd! hear us crying.
Help us, Lord, on thee relying!
Feed us, thou, each want supplying,
And when comes the hour of dying,
Lead us to the life of love.
Thou who knowest all: the giver
Of such food to mortals;-never
From thy grace thy creatures sever:
Co-heirs with thy saints for ever,
May we be thy guests above!
CRUX FIDELIS, FOR GOOD FRIDAY.
Faithful Cross! of all our forests
Tree most noble and most fair!
On no other plant that groweth
Leaves and bloom like thine appear: Sweetest nails and sweetest timber, Such a cherish'd weight to bear.*
Sing, my tongue! the glorious combat
Which for thee this day was fought;
Sing the cross, the ruddy trophy
Of the triumph nobly wrought:
And how Christ, the world's Redeemer,
With his blood thy freedom bought.
*This versicle is repeated between each verse of the Hymn.
The world's Maker, on beholding
Our first parent's cruel fall, Who, the noxious apple eating, Introduc'd sad death to all
Then decreed that wood should ransom
Those the fruit tree did enthrall.
Then the plan of our redemption
Was decreed in ev'ry part:
Then it was that God determin'd
Art should quell the serpent's art :
And that, whence the sin had risen,
Balm should saving grace impart.
When at length the holy fullness
Of the promis'd time was come,
From the throne of God in heaven,
To reverse man's bitter doom,
Christ the Son, the world's creator,
Was made flesh in Mary's womb.
Hark! the tender infant crying
While within the manger there!
See, his limbs are swathed in linen
By his Virgin Mother's care:
See, his legs, his feet, his ancles
Many an infant bandage wear!
Scarce six lustres are completed
'Ere this saving child we see,
Who alone on earth descended
Man's pure sacrifice to be,
Like a lamb, led forth to slaughter
On the altar of the tree.
See him crowned with and thorns fainting:
Bitter gall his parch'd lips crave.
Then the nails, his sinews tortur'd;
Then the lance its puncture gave,
Whence the blood and water issued,
All the earth, sea, stars to lave.
Haughty tree! bend, bend thy branches
Softly smoothe thy rugged veins,
And incline that gnarled stiffness
Which from youth thy trunk retains.-
Softly bow to ease his torture-
To assuage thy Maker's pains!
All our hope on thee was freighted:
Thine our safety to restore,
Thou the boat prepared to carry
Shipwrecked nations safe to shore,
Save us, thou dear boat! besprinkled
With the Lamb's redeeming gore.
To God eternal praise and glory,
Highest honour-highest fame,
To his Son, our dear Redeemer,
And the Paraclete the same.
Love and power and thanksgiving
Still attend God's holy name.
The Prose for EASTER SUNDAY and Easter week,
The paschal Victim calls for praise; the Christian song obeys.
The lamb redeems the flock: Christ, whom no sin defiles,
To his great Father thus the sinner reconciles.
Death and life in contest strange have met:
The leader slain of life yet liveth, reigneth yet.
To us, Mary, say,
What sawest thou by the way?
Angels bearing witness: both the napkin and
Christ my hope is risen: he will meet you all in
That Christ is truly risen from the dead, we
Victorious king! to us thy mercy show.
THE STABAT MATER.
FOR FRIDAY IN PASSION WEEK.
Tearful stood the mother lowly,
Near the cross on which her holy
Son was nail'd, her son ador'd.
Her soul the while, with anguish heaving-
Sad-with direst sorrow grieving-
Felt the promis'd, piercing sword.
Oh, how woeful her dejection!
All the mother's blest affection
There bewail'd its only one:
Trembling wail'd and sorrow'd o'er him:
View'd each torturing nail that tore him-
Her renown'd, her duteous Son.
Lives there one who tears could smother,
Did he see Christ's blessed mother
In this anguish great and wild?