We from Thy throes are born to life above: 'Tis thus Thou build'st Thy martyrs, and 'tis thus That Faith herself doth anchor on Thy love.

While with Thine arms outstretch'd, bleeding and bare,

As to Thy throne of Godhead, Thou to Thee
Dost draw the big round world, let us draw near,

And, clinging at the foot of that dread tree, Beneath Thy wither'd frame and bleeding side, Hide ourselves, and look up, dear Lord, to Thee.

That only hope of refuge, only pride
Of a lost world, oh, may it o'er us reign,
And in the fountain of our hearts abide.

Glory to Thee, Eternal Victim slain,
Father who gave, and Holy Paraclete,
As was, and is, and shall for

aye

remain.

AT THE VESPERS.

Remember that I stood before Thee to speak good for them, and to turn away Thy wrath from them -JEREM. Xviii.

"Vexilla Regis prodeunt."

Is this the standard of a king?

It is the Cross, that sign of mystery,
The wood on which, like some accursed thing,
The world's great Maker deign'd to die,
Where He sustain'd the lance's iron wound,
Whence for our souls water and blood abound.

Wonderful tree, and from old time

Oft in mysterious measures darkly sung,
On which, as on a purple throne sublime,
The dreadful King of Glory hung:

O precious wood, thou art surpassing fair;
Blest tree, found meet those sacred limbs to bear.

Blessed, and blessed-making tree,

From what most noble stock didst thou arise,

That thou should'st touch those limbs, the bearer

be

Of Him, the mighty sacrifice,

Who, drop by drop, the world's price told that day, And rescued from hell's jaws the living prey.

Hail, holy Cross, sole refuge, hail!

At this the season of our suffering Lord; In our grief's bitter waters so prevail,

That they to us may health afford :
So may devotion gain a holier mind,
And penitence therein may pardon find.

All love, all power, all praise, and might,
All worship, and all adoration be

To Him, who veil'd His own essential light,
And hung on the accursed tree,

With Father and with Spirit, ever blest,
May on our souls Thy shadow ever rest.

THE VIRGIN MARY AT THE CROSS.

What thing shall I liken to thee, O daughter of Jerusalem? what shall I equal to thee that I may comfort thee, O virgin daughter of Zion? for thy breach is great, like the sea: who can heal thee?-ISAIAH XI.

"Illæsa te puerpera."

Nor a parent's stern control,
Not a mother's pang was thine,
O'er thy Holy Child Divine,
But a sword shall pierce thy soul.

When He gave, with dying brow,
Thee another son's to be,-
Gave another son to thee,-

"Tis that pang is on thee now.

But we see no rended hair,

And we hear no wailing cry,

All is silent agony,—

"Tis a mother's grief is there.

Praise to Thee, the Virgin-born,-
Three in One for evermore,-

To the Father of the poor,

And the Friend of them that mourn.