Sonnet Xcv.

While the vain world around us buys and sells, And falls before its pomp and vanity, Each day, O Lord, in humble wise to Thee We come, to draw from Thy salvation's wells Waters of life: each day the mourner tells To Thee his tale of woe: the healing tree Sheds every day its leaves, priceless and free, Whose balm the fever of the serpent quells. Thou blessed One, to cruel pangs for us Resigned, accept our contrite sacrifice: Feed us with grace each day in new supplies: Look we on Thee whom we have pierced, and thus, Though sorrow rend our heart, and flood our eyes, Shall faith above the gloom in steady radiance rise.