AT THE COMPLINE. Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary, the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour; whom resist stedfast in the faith.-1 PETER V. "O splendor æterni Patris." O CHRIST, blest effluence Divine, Lo, the tired sun hath gone to rest, That, though our eyes to slumber yield, That, though this outward weary gloom And to its holy home For ever soar and sing. Hear us, our only Help and Health, Whom Thou hast purchased to be good, Paying the countless wealth Of Thine own holy blood. To God the Father, God the Son, And God the Spirit, glory be, To all eternity. ON THE FIRST FRIDAY IN LENT. AT THE VESPERS. I will pour upon the house of David, and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of grace and of supplications; and they shall look upon Me whom they have pierced.-ZECH. xii. "Prome vocem, mens, canoram." DRAW out, sad heart, thy melody, The sorrows of the Crucified, The wounds of Him that died, By that unpitying fury kill'd, We drink health from His bitter cup, His Cross doth lift us up, His stripes for us a balm have found, "Tis He our wounds hath bound. With feet and hands transfix'd in pain For us a healing fount He bore, At every bleeding pore: The nails that hold Thee on the tree Bind us to that and Thee. Thy heart, now still'd by death's cold trance, Hath pierc'd the barbed lance, Op'ning a door to all below, Whence blood and water flow: This hath the fount of cleansing shown, That is our heavenly crown. Grant, Saviour, that for us below Then we will ever sing Thy praise Through Heav'n's eternal days. AT THE MATTINS. When we shall see Him, there is no beauty that we should desire Him He is despised and rejected of men, a Man of sorrows and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from Him He was despised and we esteemed Him not.-Is. liii. "Quæ te pro populi criminibus nova." SAY, what strange love works Thee this sad unrest, Drives Thee, the only innocent, to die For a poor guilty nation so unblest, That Thou, who art the good and great High-Priest, Shouldst like a cord-bound victim, helpless lie? The nails, which rend Thy bleeding feet in twain, From off the captive world have shook the yoke. That piercing lance hath open'd pardon's door- |