st, Thy glories can unfold?
Thine was the arm, outstretched in wrath, that made
The stricken land of Pharaoh, sore afraid,
Bow down before Thy minister of old.

Thy pathless deep did at the voice restrain
Its surging billows, till with Thee for guide
Thy host passed scathless, and the refluent tide
Swept down the wicked to the engulfing main.

At Thy command the desert, parched and dry,
Breaks into laughing rills, and water clear
Wells from the smitten rock Thy flock to cheer
And quench their thirst beneath that brazen sky.

Then Marah's bitterness grew passing sweet,
Touched by the mystic tree; so by the grace
Of Thine own Tree, O Christ, our sinful race
Regains its lost hopes at Thy pierced feet.

Faster than icy hail the manna falls,
Like snow down drifting from a wintry sky;
The feast is set: they heap the tables high
With that rich food from Thy celestial halls.

Fresh blow the breezes from the distant shore
And bear a fluttering cloud that hides the light,
Till the frail pinions, faltering in their flight,
Sink in the wilderness to rise no more.

How great the love of God's own Son, that shed
Such wondrous bounty on His chosen race!
And still to us He proffers in His grace
The mystic Feast, wherewith our souls are fed.

Through the world's raging sea He bids us come,
And 'twixt the sundered billows guides our path,
Till, spent and wearied with the ocean's wrath,
He calls His storm-tossed saints to Heaven and home.

There in His paradise red roses blow,
With golden daffodils and lilies pale
And gentle violets, and down the vale
The murmuring rivulets for ever flow.

Sweet balsams, welling from the slender tree,
And precious spices fill the fragrant air,
And, hiding by the stream, that blossom rare
Whose leaves the river hurries to the sea.

There the blest souls with one accord unite
To hymn in dulcet song their Saviour's praise,
And as the chanting quire their voices raise
They tread with shining feet the lilies bright.

Yea, e'en the spirits of the lost, that dwell
Where the black stream of sullen Acheron flows,
Rest on that holy night when Christ arose,
And for a while 'tis holiday in Hell.

No sun from ocean rising drives away
Their darkness, with his flaming shafts far-hurled,
But from the cross of Christ o'er that wan world
There st