JERUSALEM.

Which far above the starry sky,
Piled up with living stones on high,
Art, as a Bride, encircled bright
With million angel forms of light:

Oh, wedded in a prosperous hour,
The Father's glory was thy dower;
The Spirit all His graces shed,

Thou peerless Queen, upon thy head;

When Christ espoused thee for His Bride,

O City bright and glorified!

Thy gates a pearly lustre pour;
Thy gates are open evermore;
And thither evermore draw nigh
All who for Christ have dared to die,
Or, smit with love of their dear Lord,
Have pains endured, and joys abhorred.

Thou too, O Church, which here we see!

No easy task hath builded thee.

Long did the chisels ring around;

Long did the mallets' blows rebound;

Long worked the head and toiled the hand,
Ere stood thy stones as now they stand!

BREVIARY.

133

THE GOD OF LOVE.

THE God of love my Shepherd is,
And He that doth me feed;
While He is mine, and I am His,
What can I want or need?

He leads me to the tender grass,
Where I both feed and rest;
Then to the streams that gently pass:
In both I have the best.

Or, if I stray, He doth convert,
And bring my mind in frame.
And all this, not for my desert,
But for His holy name.

Yea, in death's shady, black abode
Well may I walk, nor fear:
For Thou art with me, and Thy rod
To guide, Thy staff to bear.

Nay, Thou dost make me sit and dine,

Ev'n in my enemies' sight.

THE GOD OF LOVE.

My head with oil, my cup with wine
Runs over, day and night.

Surely Thy sweet and wondrous love
Shall measure all my days;

And, as it never shall remove,

So neither shall my praise.

HERBERT.

135

STABAT MATER DOLOROSA.

Ar the cross her station keeping,
Stood the mournful mother weeping,
Where He hung, the dying Lord;
For her soul, of joy bereaved,
Bowed with anguish, deeply grieved,
Felt the sharp and piercing sword.

Oh, how sad and sore distressed
Now was she, that mother blessed
Of the Sole-begotten One;
Deep the woe of her affliction
When she saw the Crucifixion

Of her ever-glorious Son.

Who on Christ's dear mother gazing,
Pierced by anguish so amazing,

Born of woman, would not weep?
Who on Christ's dear mother thinking,
Such a cup of sorrow drinking,

Would not share her sorrows deep?

For His people's sins chastised,

She beheld her Son despised,

Scourged, and crowned with thorns entwined;