PASSIONTIDE.
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t is the greatness of Thy love, dear Lord,that we would celebrateWith sevenfold powers.Our love at best is cold and poor, at best unseemlyfor Thy state,This best of ours.Creatures that die, we yet are such as Thine ownhands deigned to create:We frail as flowers,We bitter bondslaves ransomed at a price incomparablygreatTo grace Heaven’s bowers. Thou callest: “Come at once”—and still Thoucallest us: “Come late, tho’ late”—(The moments fly)—“Come, every one that thirsteth, come”—“Comeprove Me, knocking at My gate”—(Some souls draw nigh!)—“Come thou who waiting seekest Me”—“Comethou for whom I seek and wait”—(Why will we die?)—“Come and repent: come and amend: come joythe joys unsatiate”———(Christ passeth by...)—Lord, pass not by—I come—and I—and I.Amen.
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