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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 142 pages of information about The Christian Year.

Behind thus soft bright summer cloud
   That makes such haste to melt and die,
Our wistful gaze is oft allowed
   A glimpse of the unchanging sky: 
Let storm and darkness do their worst;
   For the lost dream the heart may ache,
The heart may ache, but may not burst;
   Heaven will not leave thee nor forsake.

One rock amid the weltering floods,
   One torch in a tempestuous night,
One changeless pine in fading woods:-
   Such is the thought of Love and Might,
True Might and ever-present Love,
   When death is busy near the throne,
Auth Sorrow her keen sting would prove
   On Monarchs orphaned and alone.

In that lorn hour and desolate,
   Who could endure a crown? but He,
Who singly bore the world’s sad weight,
   Is near, to whisper, “Lean on Me: 
Thy days of toil, thy nights of care,
   Sad lonely dreams in crowded hall,
Darkness within, while pageants glare
   Around—­the Cross supports them all.”

Oh, Promise of undying Love! 
   While Monarchs seek thee for repose,
Far in the nameless mountain cove
   Each pastoral heart thy bounty knows. 
Ye, who in place of shepherds true
   Come trembling to their awful trust,
Lo here the fountain to imbue
   With strength and hope your feeble dust.

Not upon Kings or Priests alone
   The power of that dear word is spent;
It chants to all in softest tone
   The lowly lesson of Content: 
Heaven’s light is poured on high and low;
   To high and low Heaven’s Angel spake;
“Resign thee to thy weal or woe,
   I ne’er will leave thee nor forsake.”

ORDINATION

After this, the congregation shall be desired, secretly in their prayers, to make their humble supplications to God for all these things:  for the which prayers there shall be silence kept for a space.

After which shall be sung or said by the Bishop (the persons to be ordained Priests all kneeling), “Veni, Creator Spiritus.”  Rubric in the Office for Ordering of Priests.

’Twas silence in Thy temple, Lord,
   When slowly through the hallowed air
The spreading cloud of incense soared,
   Charged with the breath of Israel’s prayer.

’Twas silence round Thy throne on high,
   When the last wondrous seal unclosed,
And in this portals of the sky
   Thine armies awfully reposed.

And this deep pause, that o’er us now
   Is hovering—­comes it not of Thee? 
Is it not like a mother’s vow
   When, with her darling on her knee,

She weighs and numbers o’er and o’er
   Love’s treasure hid in her fond breast,
To cull from that exhaustless store
   The dearest blessing and the best?

And where shall mother’s bosom find,
   With all its deep love-learned skill,
A prayer so sweetly to her mind,
   As, in this sacred hour and still,

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