SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY. THE God of Glory walks his round, From day to day, from year to year, And warns us each with awful sound, • No longer stand ye idle here. '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 Foretell your latest travail near, 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 inany a tear Through endless years the guilt must moan Of moments lost and wasted here.' O Thou, by all thy works adored, To whoin the sinner's soul is dear, Recall us to thy vineyard, Lord, And grant us grace to please thee here.

SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY,

O God, by whom the seed is given ;
By whom the harvest blessed ;
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
Shall ripen in the sky.

THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT.

VIRGIN-born, we bow before thee;
Blessed was the womb that bore thee;
Mary, mother meek and mild,
Blessed was she in her child.

Blessed was the breast that fed thee,
Blessed was the hand that led thee,
Blessed was the parent's eye
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.

FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

0, King of earth and air and sea,
The hungry ravens cry to thee ;
To thee the scaly tribes that sweep
The bosom of the boundless deep;
To thee the lions roaring call,
The common Father, kind to all;
Then grant thy servants, Lord, we pray,
Our daily bread from day to day.
The fishes may for food complain;
The ravens spread their wings in vain;
The roaring lions lack and pine ;
But, God ! thou carest still for thine.
Thy bounteous hand with food can bless
The bleak and lonely wilderness;
And thou hast taught us, Lord, to pray
For daily bread from day to day.
And 0, when through the wilds we roam
That part us from our heavenly home;
When lost in danger, want, and wo,
Our faithless tears begin to flow;
Do thou thy gracious comfort give,
By which alone the soul may live ;
And grant thy servants, Lord, we pray,
The bread of life from day to day.

FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

0 Thou, whom neither time nor space

Can circle in, unseen, unknown, Nor faith in boldest flight can trace,

Save through thy Spirit and thy Son ;

And Thou, that from thy bright abode,

To us in mortal weakness shown, Didst graft the manhood into God,

Eternal, co-eternal Son;

And Thou, whose unction from on high

By comfort, light, and love is known, Who, with the parent Deity,

Dread Spirit, art for ever one!

Great First and Last, thy blessing give,

And grant us faith, thy gift alone, To love and praise thee while we live,

And do whate'er thou wouldst have done.