Oh, then the mysteries were unfurl'd Of His triumphant reign, How martyr blood, through all the world, Then grant us, Lord, with Thee to die,- With Thee from this vain world to fly,- And now to Him, who vanquish'd death,' INNOCENTS' DAY. MATINS. (Salveti, Flores Martyrum. No. 46.) . HAIL, infant martyrs, new-born victims, hail! The Lord's first votive offerings of blood, Oh! what availed thee, Herod, this thy guilt, This load of crime that on thy conscience lies? The Lord alone, whose blood thou would'st have spilt, Now mocks thy malice, and thy power defies. Yes! he alone survived, when all the ground Drank the red torrents of that carnage wild; Though many a childless mother wailed around, The hand of murder spared the Virgin's child! O Jesu, Virgin-born! all praise to Thee, By saints on earth, and by the heavenly host. EVENSONG. (Molles in agnos ceu lupus. No. 47.) As wolves attack their helpless prey, The cradles flow with infant blood, The Lord alone escapes away. Ye mothers, let no tears be shed,— The Father's name we loudly raise, CIRCUMCISION. MATINS. (Felix dies, quam proprio. No. 48.) Он, happy day, when first was poured Just entered on this world of woe, From heaven descending, to fulfil Beneath the knife behold The Child, Lord, circumcise our hearts, we pray; The Father's name we loudly raise, EVENSONG. (Victis sibi cognomina. No. 49.) 'Tis for conquering kings to gain So no other name is given Which can make the dead to rise, That which Christ so hardly wrought, That salvation, mortals, say, Will you madly cast away; Rather gladly for that name Bear the cross, endure the shame ; Is not death, but victory. Dost thou, Jesu, condescend Thus to make our boast of thee. Glory to the Father be; Glory, Virgin-born, to thee; Glory to the Holy Ghost, Ever from the heavenly host. SUNDAY AFTER CIRCUMCISION. NOCTURN. (Verbum quod ante secula. No. 50.) THE Word, who dwelt above the skies Now on the Virgin's bosom lies, A helpless new-born child of man. Already on his sinless head The streams of wrath begin to flow; Already, on his infant bed, The taste of grief the Lord must know. |