O, then in each succeeding year
      When Thine Ascension Day draws round,
    With hearts so full of holy fear
      May we within Thy Church be found,
  That in the spirit we may see Thee rise
  And bless us with pierced hands from out the skies!

    Christ, if our gaze for ever thus
      Is fixed upon Thy Heavenward way,
    Death shall but bring to each of us
      At last his soul’s Ascension Day,
  Till in Thy mercy Thou descend once more
  And quick and dead to meet Thy coming soar.

WHITSUNTIDE

  When Christ from off the mountain crest
    Before their marvelling eyes,
  Whilst His disciples still He blessed,
    Was caught into the skies—­
  The Angels, whose harmonious breath
    Erstwhile proclaimed His birth,
  Now hailed Him Victor over Death,
    Redeemer of the Earth;
  “Lift up your heads, ye Heavenly Gates!”
    Rang forth their joyful strain;
  “For lo! the King of Glory waits
    To enter you again!”

  Thus, heralded, from Heaven to Heaven
    Magnifical He goes,
  Until the last of all the seven
    To greet His coming glows;
  While He the Eternal long left lone
    To meet Him doth upstand,
  Then sets His Son upon the Throne
    Once more at His right hand. 
  Whereat with one triumphal hymn
    Majestically blent
  The Cherubim and Seraphim
    The Universe have rent. 
  Last, from the splendrous mercy seat,
    Of Father and of Son,
  To Earth, their purpose to complete,
    Descends the Promised One.

  Like to a mighty rushing wind
    He falls, subduing space,
  To where Christ’s chosen with one mind
    Are gathered in one place. 
  With tongues of flame He lights on each,
    Whose wonder-working spell
  Fires them in every human speech
    Heaven’s message forth to tell. 
  The coward brood of doubt and fear
    And hesitance are fled;
  Before the quickening Comforter
    They rise as from the dead. 
  The bolted door is yawning wide,
    The barred gate backward flung;
  And forth unarmed and fearless-eyed,
    They fare their foes among.

HARVEST HYMN

CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS

  O ye weeping sons and daughters,
    Trust the Heavenly Harvest Giver,
  Cast your bread upon the waters
    Of His overflowing river;
  Cast the good seed, nothing doubting
    That your tears shall turn to praise,
  Ye shall yet behold it sprouting
    Heavenward, after many days.

  Hope and love, long frost-withholden,
    Into laughing life upleaping,
  Blade and ear, from green to golden,
    Yet shall ripen for your reaping;
  Till some radiant summer morrow,
    Wheresoe’er your sickle cleaves,
  Ye, who sow to-day in sorrow,
    Shout for joy amid your sheaves.