Himself to me my Saviour brings,
As meat in that, as drink in this;
But still in both one Christ He is.

The receiving mouth here makes
Nor wound nor breach in what He takes.
Let one, or one thousand be

Here dividers, single he

Bears home no less, all they no more,
Nor leave they both less than before.

Though in itself this sovereign feast
Be all the same to every guest,
Yet on the same, life-meaning, bread
The child of death eats himself dead.
Nor is't Love's fault, but sin's dire skill
That thus from life can death distil.

When the blest signs thou broke shalt see, Hold but thy faith entire as He,

Who, howsoe'er clad, cannot come

Less than whole Christ in every crumb.
In broken forms a stable faith

Untouch'd her precious total hath.

Lo, the life-food of angels then

Bow'd to the lowly mouths of men!
The childrens' bread, the bridegroom's wine,

Not to be cast to dogs or swine.

Lo, the full, final sacrifice

On which all figures fix'd their eyes,

The ransom'd Isaac and his ram,

The manna, and the Paschal Lamb!

Jesu, Master, just and true!

Our food, and faithful Shepherd too!
O, by Thyself vouchsafe to keep,

As with Thyself Thou feed'st Thy sheep.

O, let that love which thus makes Thee
Mix with our low mortality,

Lift our lean souls, and set us up
Convictors of Thine own full cup,
Co-heirs of saints, that so all may
Drink the same wine, and the same way;
Nor change the pasture, but the place,

To feed of Thee in Thine own face! Amen.

THE HYMN "DIES IRE DIES ILLA."
In Meditation of the Day of Judgment.

EAR'ST thou, my soul, what serious things
Both the Psalm and Sibyl sings,

Of a sure Judge, from whose sharp ray

The world in flames shall fly away?

O, that Fire! before whose face Heav'n and earth shall find no place: O, these Eyes! whose angry light Must be the day of that dread night.

O, that Trump! whose blast shall run
An even round with th' circling sun,
And urge the murmuring graves to bring
Pale mankind forth to meet his King.

Horror of nature, hell and death!
When a deep groan from beneath

Shall cry,
"we come, we come," and all
The caves of night answer one call.

O, that Book! whose leaves so bright
Will set the world in severe light.
O, that Judge! whose hand, whose eye
None can endure, yet none can fly.

Ah, then, poor soul! what wilt thou say? And to what patron choose to pray, When stars themselves shall stagger, and The most firm foot no more than stand?

But Thou giv'st leave, dread Lord, that we Take shelter from Thyself in Thee;

And with the wings of Thine own dove
Fly to Thy sceptre of soft love!

Dear, remember in that day

Who was the cause Thou cam'st this way; Thy sheep was stray'd, and Thou wouldst be Even lost Thyself in seeking me!

Shall all that labour, all that cost Of love, and even that loss, be lost?

And this loved soul judged worth no less
Than all that way and weariness?

Just Mercy, then, Thy reck'ning be
With my price, and not with me;
'Twas paid at first with too much pain,
To be paid twice, or once in vain.

Mercy, my Judge! mercy, I cry,
With blushing cheek and bleeding eye;
The conscious colours of my sin
Are red without, and pale within.

O, let Thine own soft bowels pay Thyself, and so discharge that day! If Sin can sigh, Love can forgive, O, say the word, my soul shall live!

Those mercies which Thy Mary found, Or who Thy cross confess'd and crown'd, Hope tells my heart the same loves be Still alive, and still for me.

Though both my pray'rs and tears combine,
Both worthless are, for they are mine;
But Thou Thy bounteous self still be,
And show Thou art by saving me.

O, when Thy last frown shall proclaim
The flocks of goats to folds of flame,
And all Thy lost sheep found shall be,
Let" Come ye blessed" then call me!

When the dread" Ite" shall divide Those limbs of death from Thy left side, Let those life-speaking lips command That I inherit Thy right hand!

O, hear a suppliant heart, all crush'd And crumbled into contrite dust!

My hope, my fear! my Judge, my Friend! Take charge of me, and of my end!

THE HYMN "O GLORIOSA DOMINA."

AIL, most high, most humble one!
Above the world, below thy Son,

Whose blush the moon beauteously mars

And stains the timorous light of stars.
He that made all things had not done
Till He had made Himself thy Son.
The whole world's host would be thy guest
And board Himself at thy rich breast.
O, boundless hospitality!

The feast of all things feeds on thee.

The first Eve, mother of our fall,

Ere she bore any one, slew all.
Of her unkind gift might we have
The inheritance of a hasty grave;
Quick buried in the wanton tomb
Of one forbidden bit,