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Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
She whose heart, its silence keeping,
Grief had cleft as with a sword.

Oh, that Mother's sad affliction-
Mother of all benediction-

Of the sole-begotten One;
Oh, the grieving, sense-bereaving,
Of her heaving breast, perceiving
The dread sufferings of her Son.

What man is there so unfeeling,
Who, his heart to pity steeling,

Could behold that sight unmoved? Could Christ's Mother see there weeping, See the pious Mother keeping

Vigil by the Son she loved?

For his people's sins atoning,
She saw Jesus writhing, groaning,

'Neath the scourge wherewith he bled;

Saw her loved one, her consoler,
Dying in his dreadful dolour,

Till at length his spirit fled.

O thou Mother of election,
Fountain of all pure affection,

Make thy grief, thy pain, my own;
Make my heart to God returning,
In the love of Jesus burning,

Feel the fire that thine has known.

Blessed Mother of prediction,
Stamp the marks of crucifixion
Deeply on my stony heart,
Ever leading where thy bleeding
Son is pleading for my needing,

Let me in his wounds take part.

Make me truly, each day newly
While life lasts, O Mother, duly
Weep with him, the Crucified.
Let me, 'tis my sole demanding,

Near the cross, where thou art standing,
Stand in sorrow at thy side.

Queen of virgins, best and dearest,
Grant, oh, grant the prayer thou hearest,

Let me ever mourn with thee;

Let compassion me so fashion

That Christ's wounds, his death and passion,
Be each day renewed in me.

Oh, those wounds do not deny me;
On that cross, oh, crucify me;

Let me drink his blood I pray:
Then on fire, enkindled, daring,
I may stand without despairing

On that dreadful judgment-day.

May that cross be my salvation;
Make Christ's death my preservation;
May his grace my heart make wise;
And when death my body taketh,
May my soul when it awaketh

Ope in heaven its raptured eyes.

ADESTE FIDELES

ANONYMOUS

Called "THE PORTUGUESE CHAPEL HYMN.”
Tr. J. R. BESTE

[15th-16th Century]

HASTEN, ye faithful, glad, joyful, and holy, Speed ye to Bethlem to honour the Word; See there the King of angels is born lowly

Oh, come and kneel before him;

Oh, come and all adore him;

Oh come, oh come, rejoicing to honour the Lord.

God of the Godhead, true Light unabated,
Mary the Virgin has borne the Adored;
True God eternal, begot, uncreated-
Oh, come and kneel before him;

Oh, come and all adore him;

Oh come, oh come, rejoicing to honour the Lord.

Sing, all ye angels, till echoes rebounding

Swell through your halls, for ever be heard;
'Glory to God,' through all heaven resounding-
Oh, come and kneel before him;

Oh, come and all adore him;

Oh come, oh come, rejoicing to honour the Lord.

Praise to the Infant, who this day descended;
Glory to thee, blessed Jesus adored;

Word, in whom two natures join, yet unblended-
Oh, come and kneel before him;

Oh, come and all adore him;

Oh come, oh come, rejoicing to honour the Lord.

O DEUS, EGO AMO TE

ATTRIBUTED TO ST. FRANCIS XAVIER. Tr. EDWARD CASWALL [1506-1552]

My God, I love thee: not because
I hope for heaven thereby,

Nor because they who love thee not
Must burn eternally.

Thou, O my Jesus, Thou didst me

Upon the Cross embrace;

For me didst bear the nails and spear,
And manifold disgrace.

And grief and torments numberless, And sweat of agony;

Yea, death itself; and all for me

Who was thine enemy.

Then why, O Blessèd Jesu Christ,
Should I not love thee well?-
Not for the hope of winning heaven,
Nor of escaping hell;

Not with the hope of gaining aught,
Not seeking a reward;
But as thyself hast lovèd me,
O ever-loving Lord!

E'en so I love thee and will love,
And in thy praise will sing,
Solely because thou art my God,
And my eternal King.

MODERN HYMNS

A MIGHTY FORTRESS IS OUR GOD MARTIN LUTHER. Tr. FREDERICK HENRY HEDGE

A

[1483-1546]

MIGHTY fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;

Our helper he, amid the flood

Of mortal ills prevailing.

For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great;
And, armed with cruel hate,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,
Our striving would be losing,-
Were not the right man on our side,
The man of God's own choosing.
Dost ask who that may be?
Christ Jesus, it is he,

Lord Sabaoth his name,

From age to age the same,

And he must win the battle.

And though this world, with devils filled,
Should threaten to undo us;

We will not fear, for God hath willed
His truth to triumph through us.

The prince of darkness grim,

We tremble not for him;
His rage we can endure,

For lo! his doom is sure,-
One little word shall fell him.

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