Second Sunday after Trinity.
“Marvel not, my brethren, if the world hate you.”
—Epistle for the Day.
To Faith, this world a vision seems
Whose architects are mocking dreams;
Each dazzling spell to Her has died,—
Christ and the Church alone abide.
When hearts with heaven are not in tune,
Shadows eclipse celestial noon,
Through wild'ring paths of sin they roam,
Far from The Cross, our central home.
But night becomes a noontide-blaze
When Sorrow lifts to Thee her gaze,—
Of darken'd souls, The living Sun,
Heaven of chaste hearts, Incarnate One!
O'er every pang experience brings
Some chant of hope Devotion sings,
When in His Church The Lord appears
And paints an Iris
on our tears.
And, come that “night,” when pulse and breath
Ebb slowly into solemn death,
Still, round the grave, disciples hymn
Songs which entrance the Seraphim.
Breathe, Harmonist Divine! inspire
And tune our spirit's broken lyre,
Till, wakened by Thy magic word,
Floats music from each hidden chord.
For grace holds God's creative spell,
And miracles within it dwell
O'er flesh-born anguish ever soaring;
And tearful Souls, whom men disown,
To priests in heaven
are deeply-known
And watch'd by Angels, when adoring.
