Like swords, have pierced Thee, and, behold!
Thine eyes gaze ever toward Calvary.
Thou lift'st Thine eyes

Toward the Father, and Thy sighs
Bear tidings of His need and Thine!
Who shall assuage

The fiery rage

Of sorrow in this frame of mine?
All the fears my poor heart thronging,
All its trembling, all its longing,
To Thee are known,

Ah, woe, woe, woe,

With woe's my bosom shaking!
And I am scarce alone,

I moan, I moan, I moan,
My heart is breaking!
Save me from death and misery!
Incline, incline

That sorrow-laden face of Thine

Unto my need, and rescue me!

GOETHE. (Trs. Editors.)

APRIL 2.

THE prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I pray :
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
That of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works Thou art the seed,

That quickens only where Thou say'st it may;
Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way
No man can find it. Father! Thou must lead.

Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred
That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread;
The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of Thee,
And sound Thy praises everlastingly.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

(Trs. William Wordsworth.)

APRIL 3.

HOW EXCELLENT IS THY NAME.

O LORD, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! who hast set thy glory above the heavens.

Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength, because of thine enemies; that thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers; the moon, and the stars, which thou hast ordained;

What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?

For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the work of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet: All sheep and oxen, yea, and the beasts of the field; The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth! PSALM VIII.

APRIL 4.

O THOU, whose balance does the mountains weigh,
Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey,
Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame,
That flame to tempest and that tempest tame;
Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls,
And on the bounties of Thy goodness calls.
O give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep.

Thy power, my weakness may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to Thee!
Reign o'er my will, my passions ebb and flow
At Thy command, nor human motive know!
If anger boil, let anger be my praise,
And sin the graceful indignation raise.
My love be warm to succour the distressed,
And lift the burden from the soul oppressed.
O may my understanding ever read

This glorious volume which Thy wisdom made,
Who decks the maiden Spring with flow'ry pride?
Who calls forth Summer like a sparkling bride?

Who joys the mother Autumn's bed to crown?
And bids old Winter lay her honours down?
May sea and land and earth and heaven be joined
To bring the Eternal Author to my mind.
EDWARD YOUNG.

APRIL 5.

TO HIS DEAR GOD.

ILE hope no more For things that will not come ; And, if they do, they prove but cumbersome. Wealth brings much woe;

And, since it fortunes so,

"Tis better to be poor

Than so t'abound

As to be drown'd

Or overwhelm'd with store.

Pale care, avant,

Ile learn to be content

With that small stock thy bounty gave or lent.

Το

What may conduce

my most healthful use,
Almighty God, me grant!
But that, or this,
That hurtful is,

Deny Thy suppliant.

R. HERRICK.

G

APRIL 6.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide; And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide; Doth God exact day labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask? but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's works or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.

JOHN MILTON.

APRIL 7.

DE PROFUNDIS.

FROM depth of doole wherein my soule doth dwell,
From heavy hart which harbours in my breast,
From troubled sprite which sildom taketh rest,
From hope of heaven, from dreade of darksome hell,
O gracious God, to Thee I crye and yell.
My God, my Lorde, my lovely Lorde, aloane
To Thee I call, to Thee I make my moane.
And Thou, good God, vouchsafe in gree to take
This woeful plaint,

Wherein I faint,

O, heare me then for Thy great mercie's sake.