The trump hath sounded,—
Death's warrant is past,-
The dead, surrounded,

Hasten to judgment: 'tis come at last.

At His own right hand
He hath set His own,

Alas, that dark band,

The Shepherd too well His sheep hath known.

By the Judge's side

They are set on high,
Who did poor abide,

And fled to Him here in His poverty.

The Cross shines to view,

In the opening skies,

To Gentile and Jew,

Dreadful or glad to all gazing eyes.

Trembling and sighing

They see Him they wounded,

There is now no dying,

For them whom His look hath aye confounded.

Before that dread day,

When all is over,

While yet we may,

Lord, to ourselves our sins discover.

To Thee, who shalt come

At the end of days

With our endless doom,

To God, Three and One, be endless praise.

AT THE MATTINS AND VESPERS.

"As it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment; so Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for Him shall He appear the second time without sin unto salvation." Heb. ix.

Nobis Olympo redditus.

THOU, who dost build for us on high
A house beyond the crystal sky,
Lead us to Thee above,

With cords of love.

Thou in whom dwelleth every good,
Thyself shalt be the soul's abode,
Waking from life's brief night
To endless light.

Then shall we see Thee as Thou art,
Thy countenance pure, nor fear to part,
To love Thee and adore

For evermore.

If Thou dost love us, leave us not;

But send down from that pure calm spot,

Pledge of adopting love,

That fostering Dove.

Thou who shalt come our Judge to be,

Jesu, the glory be to Thee,

With God and Spirit pure

Aye to endure !

On Whitsun-eve.

AT MIDNIGHT.

"Like as the hart desireth the water-brooks; so longeth my soul after Thee, O God."-Psalm xlii.

O Christe qui noster poli.

O THOU, gone up, our harbinger,
To Heaven's dread palaces,
Look on us lying helpless here,
And lift us to the skies.

May holy love the stair supply
To those pure joys divine,
Which, undiscern'd by nature's eye,
In Faith's true mirror shine.

Where God doth His tried children own,

And gives Him to the blest,

He, all in all, their toils doth crown,
And is Himself their rest.

Thy grace alone to Thee can lead,
And place us near Thy throne,
Do Thou, to help us in our need,
Send down Thy Holy One.

Praise Him who sits at God's right hand,

Praise Father, as most meet, And to all time, in every land, Praise the dread Paraclete!

AT THE MATTINS.

"Thy counsel, O Lord, who hath known, except Thou give wisdom and send Thy Holy Spirit from above? for so the ways of them which lived on the earth were reformed, and men were taught the things that are pleasing unto Thee."-Wisdom ix.

Supreme Rector cœlitum.

DREAD King, to whom the angelic hosts do

cry,

Who tramplest death 'neath Thy victorious feet,

And op'st a path unto the glorious sky,

Mark'd by Thy blood! From the eternal seat, Where Thou, with the life-giving Paraclete, Sitt'st by Thy Father's side, look on us now, Nor leave us comfortless: let our wants meet Thy pitying eyes! Thy covenanted bow Is left upon Thy path, and marks the clouds below.

Thou didst give birth to us with piercing throes,

And direst travail pains, while the dark tide Of woes o'erwhelm'd Thee, and brought death's repose;

Then the rude lance open'd Thy bleeding

side,

And thence was taken Thine own spotless Bride,

The Mother of us all. From Thy calm shore Send forth Thy Spirit of Truth, who shall abide :

Wash'd in Thy blood, the Church shall Him

adore,

And Thee and Father blest worship for evermore.