OF MANY MARTYRS.

What tongue those joys, O Jesus! can disclose,

Which for thy martyred saints thou dost prepare! Happy who in thy pains, thrice happy, those

Who in thy glory share!

Our faults, our sins, our miseries remove,
Great Deity supreme, immortal King!
Grant us thy peace, grant us thy endless love
Through endless years to sing!

Breviary.

463

O HOLY CROSS, on thee to hang

At Jesus' side and feel the sweet,

And taste aright each healing pang,

What saint, what virgin martyr e'er was meet?

Two only of His own found grace

The very death He died to die.

Joyful they rushed to thine embrace,
And angel choirs, half-envying, waited by.

Joyful they speed ;-but how is this?
Why doubt they yet, in Jesus' power

To grasp their crown of hard-won bliss?

Well have ye fought; why faint in victory's hour?

Two brothers' hearts were they, the first

Who shone as stars in Jesus' band,

For thee in prayer and fasting nursed,

And bearing the dread Cross! from land to land.

ST. ANDREW AND HIS CROSS.

465

And now, in wond'rous sympathy,

When thou art nearer, fain to draw

These who had yearned so long for thee,

Shrink from thy touch, and hide their eyes for awe.

He who denied he dares not scale

With forward step thy holy stair. Best for his giddy heart and frail,

In humblest penance to hang downward there.

And he that saintly elder meek,

Wont, of old time, to find and bring

Brother or friend with Christ to speak,

As worthier to behold the heart-searching King:

Ah little brooked his lowly heart;

Such glorious crown should him reward.

He sought the way with duteous art,

To change his Cross, yet suffer with his Lord.

He sought and found; and now, where'er

St. Andrew's holy cross we see,

In royal banner blazoned fair,

Or in dread cipher, Holiest Name of Thee,

A martyred form we may discern,

There bound, there preaching: Image meet

Of One uplifted high, to turn

And draw to Him all hearts in bondage sweet.

466

ST. ANDREW AND HIS CROSS.

And as we gaze, may He impart

The grace to bear what he shall send ;

Yet stay the rash, self-pleasing heart,

Too forward with his cross our penal woe to blend.

Keble's Lyra Innocentium.

Fishers of Men.*

THE boats are out and the storm is high;
We kneel on the shore and pray:

The star of the sea shines still in the sky,
And God is our help and stay.

The fishers are weak and the tide is strong,
And their boat seems slight and frail;
But St. Peter has steered it for them so long,
It would weather a rougher gale.

St. John, the beloved, sails with them too,
And his loving words they hear;

So with tender trust the boat's brave crew
Neither doubt, or pause, or fear.

He who sent them fishing is with them still, And He bids them cast their net;

And He has the power their boat to fill ;

So we know He will do it yet.

* Roman Catholic.