Fourth Sunday in Advent.
“With great might succour us; ------ through our sins and
wickedness, we are sore let and hindered.”
—Collect for the Day.
Lord of the Church! Thy priestly word
By Thee commission'd, charged, and blest,—
Grant, we may hear it; and, compunction-stirr'd,
Under the Cross have guilt confest.
None but the damn'd should cease to pray;
Crime may be hid, but not subdued;
E'en now, rehearsals of the Judgment-day
Enacted are, in solitude.
But, might we to that dread Assize
In secrecy of sin depart,
Myriads of Worlds, with their concenter'd eyes,
At length must read Man's open heart!
In light unroll'd, and read aloud,—
Who can anticipate their cry
When all which earth commits of unavow'd
First rolls along the list'ning Sky!
Atoning Priest, triumphant Lord,
Historian of the heart alone,
Prostrate beneath the radiance of Thy Word
Now to the sinner let himself be shown.
Confession is Thy law of grace;
Without it, vain are sighs and tears;
And, pardonless, oh! who can meet that Face
Whose frowns are darker than our fears?
Long 'ere the summon'd dead awake,
Let penitence and prayer disclose
Those voiceless burdens which from conscience take
The calm, which Absolution knows.
Wash'd into whiteness by that Blood
Which streams from God's incarnate Son,—
Thus only, have the Lord's elect withstood
Terrors, that rise from hell begun!
So hear we, then, that voice of Love
Whose accents are of Cross, and Crown;
And while, faith-wing'd, we soar to Christ above,
Be ev'ry tower of Self cast down.
Pardon is peace; but, peace retires
To guiltless hearts absolved for heaven;
And, he who most to purity aspires,
Will find it in that word,—“forgiven.”
