Sixth Sunday after the Epiphany.
“What manner of love the Father has bestowed upon us, that we
should be called the Sons of God.”
—Epistle for the Day.
“Merciful Father!”—in that word
Thine Incarnation, Lord, unfolds
More than mere Reason ever heard,
Or, Science in proud search beholds.
O Thou! Who, when some contrite heart
By inward sigh ascends to Thee,
An infinite Compassion art,
Still, to Thy Church all-gracious be!
Her heart-cries have a tone which moves
The sympathizing Priest Divine,
Who more, perchance, such music loves
Than Angel-chants, before His shrine.
Rock, Shield, and Sun, of Souls art Thou,
The Church's everlasting Friend!
And faith would realize Thee, now,
And in Thy Courts devoutly bend.
Hence, not as worldlings supplicate
For time and wealth's decaying-things,—
Souls merely seek a brighter state
Than what this fever'd earth-scene brings;
Nor yet, for selfish calm we pray
Embower'd in some Arcadian spot,
Where pangless hours may roll away
Lull'd in soft dreams of life forgot:
But, this Thy yearning saints desire,—
More of Thyself to share and see,
And, glowing with celestial fire,
Anthem Thy Throne immortally.
