The Sanctuary A Companion in Verse for the English Prayer Book. By Robert Montgomery |
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4. Deprecations.
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 | The Sanctuary |  |
4. Deprecations.
“Spare Thy people! whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy most precious blood.”
—Litany.
If Man be want, and God supply,
And prayer unite the Two,
Then may our Church the soul defy
Her wisdom to outdo,—
In seeking what she hath not sought
'Mid the vast world of need,
From all in Godhead faith is taught
Through pard'ning Love to plead.
And prayer unite the Two,
Then may our Church the soul defy
Her wisdom to outdo,—
In seeking what she hath not sought
'Mid the vast world of need,
From all in Godhead faith is taught
Through pard'ning Love to plead.
But, while the flesh-blind Sense believes,
To suffer, is the worst
Of pangs o'er which proud nature grieves,
And ranks that evil first,
The Church, endow'd with sight divine,
In sin, not suff'ring, sees,
When prostrate at the Christian shrine,—
What most requires release.
To suffer, is the worst
Of pangs o'er which proud nature grieves,
And ranks that evil first,
The Church, endow'd with sight divine,
In sin, not suff'ring, sees,
When prostrate at the Christian shrine,—
What most requires release.
Lightning and thunder, plague and pest,
Sickness, and pain, and fear,
Whatever racks with deep unrest
Our spirit-life's career,—
Without, within, from friend or foe,
Amid that vast and varied all
Which makes the mingled sum of woe,
Men sad experience call,
Sickness, and pain, and fear,
Whatever racks with deep unrest
Our spirit-life's career,—
Without, within, from friend or foe,
Amid that vast and varied all
Which makes the mingled sum of woe,
Men sad experience call,
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Say, is not Sin the venom'd root,
The vip'rous source and spring
Of whatsoe'er, in flower or fruit,
Our aching hearts can wring?
So evil, that its boundless curse
Nor God, nor man, can change!—
Hell could not wish to make it worse,
If once allow'd to range
The vip'rous source and spring
Of whatsoe'er, in flower or fruit,
Our aching hearts can wring?
So evil, that its boundless curse
Nor God, nor man, can change!—
Hell could not wish to make it worse,
If once allow'd to range
Uncheck'd in all its hideousness!—
And hence, O Lord of grace
We seek not now, in mere distress,
One beam from Thy bright Face;
But this our yearning souls would pray,—
Freedom from awful sin!
While in the true and living Way
Our hearts pure triumph win.
And hence, O Lord of grace
We seek not now, in mere distress,
One beam from Thy bright Face;
But this our yearning souls would pray,—
Freedom from awful sin!
While in the true and living Way
Our hearts pure triumph win.
Ah! little boots it, what our doom
Of ever-changing life;
Whether, in radiance, or in gloom,
In softness, or in strife
We onward to Hereafter move,
If pureness be our guide;
Since all we need is heavenly Love,
And Jesus at our side!
Of ever-changing life;
Whether, in radiance, or in gloom,
In softness, or in strife
We onward to Hereafter move,
If pureness be our guide;
Since all we need is heavenly Love,
And Jesus at our side!
And, Lord, without Thee, dark indeed
Life's burden'd lot must be,
Thou Balm alone to hearts that bleed
From wounds which none can see
But Thou!—Whose sympathetic eye
Irradiates the soul,
And brightens, when believers cry
For Thy serene control.
Life's burden'd lot must be,
Thou Balm alone to hearts that bleed
From wounds which none can see
But Thou!—Whose sympathetic eye
Irradiates the soul,
And brightens, when believers cry
For Thy serene control.
O, what is life in fallen Man,
But one collected sin
Against Love's everlasting Plan,
Without, or from within?
And hence, we suffer, while we live;
To struggle, is to be;
And, nought our selves to Self can give
But lost eternity!
But one collected sin
Against Love's everlasting Plan,
Without, or from within?
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To struggle, is to be;
And, nought our selves to Self can give
But lost eternity!
Now, by Thine Agony and Blood,
Thy Passion's bosom-groan,
By more than Angels understood
Who heard Thy garden-moan!—
Incarnate, tempted, crucified,
Buried, arisen Lord!
We glory in Thy wounded Side,
Thy Sacraments, and Word.
Thy Passion's bosom-groan,
By more than Angels understood
Who heard Thy garden-moan!—
Incarnate, tempted, crucified,
Buried, arisen Lord!
We glory in Thy wounded Side,
Thy Sacraments, and Word.
And through all destined years
Down to the brink of death,
In Thee we hide our solemn fears,
And with departing breath
This litany the Church will cry,—
“Deliver, Lord, and spare;”
And when Thy throne o'erawes the sky,
Oh! grant acquittal, there.
Down to the brink of death,
In Thee we hide our solemn fears,
And with departing breath
This litany the Church will cry,—
“Deliver, Lord, and spare;”
And when Thy throne o'erawes the sky,
Oh! grant acquittal, there.
| The Sanctuary | |