A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations / Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

by Unknown

SUPPER, THE LORD’S.

Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day.

For my flesh is meat indeed, and my blood is drink indeed.—John, vi. 54, 55.

The Lord Jesus, the same night in which He was betrayed, took bread.

And when He had given thanks, He brake it, and said, Take eat; this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me.

After the same manner also He took the cup, when He had supped, saying, This cup is the New Testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me.

For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do show the Lord’s death till He come.—I. Corinthians, xi. 23, 24, 25, 26.

Him first to love, great right and reason is,

Who first to us our life and being gave,

And after, when we fared had amiss,

Us wretches from the second death did save;

And last, the Food of Life, which now we have,

Even He Himself, in His dear Sacrament,

To feed our hungry souls, unto us lent.

Then next to love our brethren, that were made

Of that self-mould, and that self-Maker’s hand.

Spenser.

I love to mingle there

In sympathy of praise and prayer,

And listen to that Living Word,

Which breathes the Spirit of the Lord:

Or, at the mystic table placed,

Those eloquent mementoes taste

Of Thee, Thou suffering Lamb divine,

Thy soul-refreshing bread and wine;

Sweet viands, given us to assuage

The faintness of the pilgrimage.

Thomas Grinfield.

And oft your willing steps renew, around the sacred board,

And break the bread, and pour the wine, in memory of your Lord:

To drink with me the grape’s first juice, to you shall yet be given,

Fresh from the deathless vine that blooms in blest abodes of Heaven.

Thomas Dale.

Bread of Heaven, on Thee we feed,

For Thy flesh is meat indeed;

Ever let our souls be fed

With this true and Living Bread.

Vine of Heaven, Thy blood supplies

This blest cup of sacrifice;

Lord, Thy wounds our healing give;

To Thy cross we look and live.

Day by day, with strength supplied,

Through the life of Him who died,

Lord of life, O’ let us be

Rooted, grafted, built on Thee!

Conder.

Bow thee to earth, and from thee cast

All stubbornness of human will;

Then dare to drink the Sacred Cup

Thy God and Saviour died to fill.

Come with thy guilt new-washed in tears,

Thy spirit raised in faith above;

Then drink, and so thy soul shall live,

Thy Saviour’s blood,—thy Saviour’s love.

Miss Landon.

Break to us each, this day, our daily bread,

Nor let earth’s fading food alone be given;

Feed us upon Thy Word,—in Christ our Head,

To find Thy Peace, the living Bread from Heaven.

H. H. Weld.

For say, can fancy, fond to weave the tale

Of bliss ideal, feign more genuine joy

Than thine, Believer, when the man of God

Gives to thy hand the consecrated cup,

Blessed memorial of a Saviour’s love!

Glowing with zeal, the humble penitent

Approacheth: Faith her fostering radiance points

Full on his contrite heart: Hope cheers his steps,

And Charity, the fairest in the train

Of Christian virtues, swells his heaving breast

With love unbounded.

Thomas Zouch.

So is it with true Christian hearts;

Their mutual share in Jesus’ blood

An everlasting bond imparts

Of holiest brotherhood:

Oh! might we all our lineage prove,

Give and forgive, do good and love,

By soft endearments in kind strife

Lightening the load of daily life!

Keble.

Thou who didst taste

Of man’s infirmities, yet bar his sins

From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not

In our temptations, but so guide our feet,

That our Last Supper in this world may lead

To that immortal banquet by thy side,

Where there is no betrayer.

Mrs. Sigourney.

By chain yet stronger must the soul be tied:

One duty more, last stage of this ascent,

Brings to thy food, memorial Sacrament,

The offspring, haply at the parents’ side;

But not till they, with all that do abide

In Heaven, have lifted up their hearts to laud

And magnify the glorious name of God,

Fountain of Grace, whose Son for sinners died,

Here must my song in timid reverence pause;

But shrink not, ye, whom to the saving rite

The Altar calls; come early, under laws

That can secure for you a path of light

Through gloomiest shade; put on, nor dread its weight,

Armour divine, and conquer in your cause.

Wordsworth.

Here He led

From the Last Supper, when the hymn was sung,

His few grieved followers out, in that drear night,

When, in the garden, on the mountain’s slope,

His agony wrung forth the crimson drops!

While these sad pictures hang upon thy sides,

Thou consecrated height, dissolve the heart

In pious sorrow!

Hannah F. Gould.