This is Thy pastoral course, O Lord,
Till we be saved, and Thou adored;—
Thy course and ours—but who are they
Who follow on the narrow way?
And yet of Thee from year to year
The Church’s solemn chant we hear,
As from Thy cradle to Thy throne
She swells her high heart-cheering tone.
Listen, ye pure white-robèd souls,
Whom in her list she now enrolls,
And gird ye for your high emprize
By these her thrilling minstrelsies.
And wheresoe’er in earth’s wide field,
Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield,
Be this your song, your joy and pride—
“Our Champion went before and died.”
Trinity Sunday.
If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe if I tell you of heavenly things? St. John iii. 12
Creator, Saviour, strengthening Guide,
Now on Thy mercy’s ocean wide
Far out of sight we seem to glide.
Help us, each hour, with steadier eye
To search the deepening mystery,
The wonders of Thy sea and sky.
The blessèd Angels look and long
To praise Thee with a worthier song,
And yet our silence does Thee wrong.—
Along the Church’s central space
The sacred weeks, with unfelt pace,
Hath borne us on from grace to grace.