Now contemplating things divine,
Beyond the power of man to tell;
Now in appalling vision plung'd,
Amid the hopeless cries of hell.
O sweet Teresa, now at last,
Thy labours o'er and heaven won,
Thou lovest God without restraint,
And shinest brighter than the sun.
Ah, then, from thy fair throne above
Obtain for us thy children here,
To imitate thy childhood's love,
In after life to persevere.
23. Feast of the Immaculate Conception of the B. V. Mary.
(December 8th.)
Hail, Mary, only sinless child
Of guilty Adam's fallen race;
Conceiv'd all pure and undefil'd,
Through thy dear Lord's preventing grace.
He would not have the blight of sin
A moment rest thy soul upon;
For pure without, and pure within,
Must be the Mother of his Son.
No haughty fiend might boast that he
One moment held thee in his snare,
Who of the dread Divinity
Wert destin'd for the Temple fair.
