Saviour ! ere death had bid thy heart-strings sever,
Thine intercession for the Church began,
And that calm, earnest strain, subsideth never,
Till one in Faith, the brotherhood of man
Bow at a Shrine, where Peace, that gentle Spirit,
Sways her mild sceptre o'er each yielding breast,
And truths, which carnal minds would disinherit,
Are hailed, and clung to, as the Ark of Rest.

Master! speed on the day, for faint with watching,
Thy children weep, as Discord loads the gale;
If mid the gloom, their eye one beam is catching,
How would they all, that sure precursor hail.
That double Day-Spring, in its faintest gushing,
Would bid the Hydra, Sect, abashed recoil,
And to the ensign of Emmanuel rushing,
A World would shout, " as they who take the spoil. "

Oh, era most sublime, when at the Cross,
(True central point of Love, and Joy divine,)
Mankind unite to quite consume the dross,
And the pure gold, no longer dim, refine.
Then, Jesus, come, the waving harvest gather,
Then garner in Thy trophies far and wide,
And mid angelic plaudits, to thy Father
Present the Church , Thy blood-bought spotless Bride.