Saturday.

HYMN.

EAR JESU, when, when will it be

That I no more shall break with Thee!

When shall this war of passions cease!
And let my soul enjoy Thy peace!

Here I repent, and sin again;

Now I revive, and now am slain— Slain with the same unhappy dart

Which, oh too often, wounds my heart.

When, dearest Lord, when shall I be
A garden sealed to all but Thee?
No more exposed, no more undone,
But live and grow to Thee alone.

'Tis not, alas, on this low earth

That such poor flowers can find a birth; They only spring above the skies

Where none can live, till here he dies!

F

Then let me die that I may go

And dwell where those bright lilies grow,
Where those blest plants of glory rise
And make a safer paradise.

No dangerous fruit, no tempting Eve,
No crafty serpent to deceive;
But we like gods indeed shall be—
Oh let me die that life to see!

Thus says my song: But does my heart
Join with the words and sing its part?
Am I so thorough wise to choose
The other world, and this refuse?

Why should I not? What do I find
That fully here contents my mind?

What is this meat, and drink, and sleep, That such poor things from heaven should keep?

What is this honour, or great place,

Or bag of money, or fair face?

What's all the world, that thus we should

Still long to dwell with flesh and blood?