Dies Ira.

When the Judge his place has ta'en,
All things hid shall be made plain,
Nothing unavenged remain.

What then, wretched! shall I speak?

Or what intercessor seek,

When the just man's cause is weak?

King of awful majesty,

Who the saved dost freely free,

Fount of mercy, pity me.

Jesus, Lord, remember, pray,
I the cause was of thy way:
Do not lose me on that day.

Tired thou satest, seeking me, -
Crucified, to set me free;
Let such pain not fruitless be.

Terrible Avenger, make

Of thy mercy me partake,
Ere that day of vengeance wake.

As a criminal I groan,
Blushing deep my fault I own:
Grace be to a suppliant shown.

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Dies Ira.

Qui Mariam absolvisti,
Et latronem exaudisti,
Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

Preces meæ non sunt dignæ,
Sed tu bonus fac benigne,
Ne perenni cremer igne.

Inter oves locum præsta,
Et ab hædis me sequestra,
Statuens in parte dextra.

Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis,
Voca me cum benedictis.

Oro supplex et acclinis,
Cor contritum quasi cinis;
Gere curam mei finis.

Lacrimosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla,
Judicandus homo reus:
Huic ergo parce, Deus!

Dies Ira.

Thou who Mary didst forgive,

And who bad'st the robber live,
Hope to me dost also give.

Though my prayer unworthy be,
Yet O set me graciously

From the fire eternal free.

'Mid thy sheep my place command, From the goats far off to stand; Set me, Lord, at thy right hand.

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And when them who scorned thee here
Thou hast judged to doom severe,
Bid me with thy saved draw near.

Lying low before thy throne,
Crushed heart in dust, I groan;

my

Grace be to a suppliant shown.

UNDER THE CROSS.

I CANNOT, cannot say,

Out of my bruised and breaking heart, Storm-driven along a thorn-set way, While blood-drops start

From every pore, as I drag on,

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Thy will, O God, be done!"

I thought, but yesterday,

My will was one with God's dear will; And that it would be sweet to say,

Whatever ill

My happy state should smite upon, "Thy will, my God, be done!"

But I was weak and wrong,

Both weak of soul and wrong of heart; And Pride alone in me was strong, With cunning art

To cheat me in the golden sun,

To say, "God's will be done!"

Under the Cross.

O shadow drear and cold,

That frights me out of foolish pride;
O flood, that through my bosom rolled
Its billowy tide;

I said, till ye your power made known,
"God's will, not mine, be done!"

Now, faint and sore afraid,

Under my cross, heavy and rude,
My idols in the ashes laid,

Like ashes strewed,

The holy words my pale lips shun,

Pity my woes, O God,

And touch my will with thy warm breath;
Put in my trembling hand thy rod,
That quickens death;

That my dead faith may feel thy sun,
And say, "Thy will be done!"

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