11

ST. STEPHEN.

Morning.

After the third Collect.

RIGHTFUL Prince of Martyrs thou,
Bind thy crown about thy brow;
Fairer far than fading wreath,
Weave we this thy crown of death.

Like a gem, each rugged stone
Sparkling with thy life-blood shone ;
Nor could stars more brightly gleam,
Studded round thy head serene.

From thy forehead's gushing streams
Dart a thousand blending beams,
Till thy glowing countenance
Lightens as an angel's glance.

Free thou gav'st the life He gave,
Blood for Him Who bled to save;
First in death thy LORD to own,
Sharer of His thorny crown:

First to tread the pointed road
Through the deep Red Sea of Blood:-

Prince of Martyrs, thee behind

What a countless army wind!

Glory to the FATHER be,

Glory, VIRGIN-BORN, to Thee,

Glory to the HOLY GHOST,

Prais'd by men and heavenly host. Amen.

12

Evening.

After the third Collect.

HOLY love towards her foes

In mysterious channels flows;

Bow'd to soothe, or steel'd to blame,
Holy love is still the same.

Pleader for himself he stood:
Now he falls, his eloquent blood
From the ground for mercy cries,
Pleading for his enemies.

GOD from Heav'n His martyr heard,— Heard, and bless'd his dying word : Saul, the murderer, standing by,— Saul was granted to that cry.

Thus he bow'd his drooping head,
Thus his joyous spirit fled :
"JESU, LORD," his offering free,
"Take the life I owe to Thee."

Death, kind angel, watching nigh,
Sweetly clos'd his tranquil eye;

Whilst the freed spirit winged her flight
From beam to beam, to endless light.

Thou that deal'dst thy plenteous store
Daily to the sick and poor,

Now art come, a welcome guest,
To thy FATHER's table blest,

In thy bridal crown display'd,
In the wedding robe array'd
Of thy purple life-blood wove,
For the SLAIN ONE's feast of love.

Thou of Virgin-mother born,
In this wintry world forlorn ;

JESU, LORD, all praise to Thee.

All glory be to FATHER, SON,
And HOLY SPIRIT, Three in ONE,
Unto all eternity. Amen.

Morning and Evening.

13

After the third Collect.

BELOVED disciple of thy LORD,
Wast thou to exile driven?
Oh, never sure thy spirit soar'd
With fleeter wings to heaven;

He That was dead and is alive,
Then cheer'd thine eyes again;
The Lion, strong with death to strive,
The Lamb, for sinners slain.

Oh, then the mysteries were unfurl'd
Of His triumphant reign,

How martyr blood, through all the world,
His kingdom should maintain.

Then grant us, LORD, with Thee to die, With Thee again to rise;

With Thee from this vain world to fly,

To meet Thee in the skies.

And now to Him, Who vanquished death,
And shows the way to heaven,

TO CHRIST from ev'ry human breath,
Be endless praises given. Amen.

THE HOLY INNOCENTS.

Morning.

14

After the third Collect.

SWEETEST flowers of early spring,
Holy babes, of you we sing,
Rosebuds by the whirlwind shorn,
On the threshold of the morn.

First who gained the Martyr's wreath; Now your LORD's blest Feet beneath, Infants still, ye seem to play

With your palms and chaplets gay.

Tyrant, what avails thy deed,

Canst thou quench the promised Seed?

Cease, ye great ones, to defy

Him Who sits enthroned on high.

Vain the war with heaven ye wage,
As from tyrant Pharaoh's rage
One escapes to lay him low,
Type of Him

ye make your Foe.

VIRGIN-BORN, to Thee be praise
Now, and through eternal days;
FATHER, equal praise to Thee,
With the SPIRIT ever be. Amen.