Hark with what awful cry
He yields His parting breath!
That cry it steeps His mother's soul
As in a swoon of death.
The sun withdraws his beam,
The mid-day heav'ns grow pale,
The moon, the stars, the universe,
Their Maker's death bewail.
Shall man alone be mute,
Amidst adoring spheres?
Come, old and young, come, rich and poor,
And bathe those feet in tears
Come kneel before His Cross,
Who shed for us His blood;
Who died the victim of pure love,
To make us sons of God.
Easter Hymn.
(I.)
Victimæ Paschali laudes.
Christ the Lord is ris'n to-day:
Christians, haste your vows to pay;
Offer ye your praises meet
At the Paschal Victim's feet.
For the sheep the Lamb hath bled,
Sinless in the sinner's stead;
Christ the Lord is ris'n on high,
Now He lives no more to die.
Christ, the victim undefil'd,
Man to God hath reconcil'd;
Whilst in strange and awful strife
