The Merits of the Saints

The mer­its of the saints

Blessèd for ev­er­more

Their love that nev­er faints

The toils they brave­ly bore—

For these the Church to­day

Pours forth her joy­ous lay—

These vic­tors win the nob­lest bay.

They

whom the world of ill

While it yet held

ab­horred:

Its wi­ther­ing flow­ers that still

They spurned with one ac­cord:

They knew them short lived all

And fol­lowed at Thy call

King Je­su

to Thy heav’n­ly hall.

For Thee all pangs they bare

Fury and mor­tal hate

The cru­el scourge to tear

The hook to la­cer­ate;

But vain their foes’ in­tent:

For

ev­ery tor­ment spent

Their val­iant spir­it stood un­spent.

Like sheep their blood they poured

And with­out groan or tear

They bent be­fore the sword

For that their king most dear:

Their souls

se­rene­ly blest

In pa­tience they pos­sessed

And looked in hope to­wards their rest.

What tongue may here de­clare

Fancy or thought des­cry

The joys Thou dost pre­pare

For these Thy saints on high!

Empurpled in the flood

Of their vic­tor­ious blood

They won the laur­el from their God.

To Thee

O Lord most high

One in three Per­sons still

To par­don us we cry

And to pre­serve from ill:

Here give Thy serv­ants peace;

Hereafter glad re­lease

And plea­sures that shall nev­er cease.

Like sheep their blood they poured

And with­out groan or tear

They bent be­fore the sword

For that their king most dear:

Their souls

se­rene­ly blest

In pa­tience they pos­sessed

And looked in hope to­wards their rest.

What tongue may here de­clare

Fancy or thought des­cry

The joys Thou dost pre­pare

For these Thy saints on high!

Empurpled in the flood

Of their vic­tor­ious blood

They won the laur­el from their God.

To Thee

O Lord most high

One in three Per­sons still

To par­don us we cry

And to pre­serve from ill:

Here give Thy serv­ants peace;

Hereafter glad re­lease

And plea­sures that shall nev­er cease.