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SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
0, hand of bounty, largely spread,
The stream thy word to nectar dyed,
Though now no more on earth we trace
FOR THE SAME.
INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell
0, when our soul from care is free,
Then may we seem, in Fancy's ear,
So may such joy, chastised and pure,
FOR THE SAME. WHEN on her Maker's bosom
The new-born earth was laid, And nature's opening blossom
Its fairest bloom displayed ; When all with fruit and flowers
The laughing soil was dressed, And Eden's fragrant bowers
Received their human guest ; No sin his face defiling,
The heir of Nature stood, And God, benignly smiling,
Beheld that all was good. Yet in that hour of blessing,
A single want was known; A wish the heart distressing;
For Adam was alone. 0, God of pure affection,
By men and saints adored, Who gavest thy protection
To Cana's nuptial board, May such thy bounties ever
To wedded love be shown, And no rude hand dissever
Whom thou hast linked in one.
THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
LORD, whose love, in power excelling,
Washed the leper’s stain away,
Hear us, help us, when we pray.
From the filth of vice and folly,
From infuriate passion's rage,
Heedless youth and selfish age;
From the lusts whose deep pollutions
Adam's ancient taint disclose,
Restless doubt and blind repose ;
Froin the miser's cursed treasure,
From the drunkard's jest obscene, From the world, its pomp and pleasure,
Jesus, Master, make us clean.
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
0, Jesus, once tossed on the breast of the billow,
And 0, when the whirlwind of passion is raging,