The triumphs of the saints, The toils they bravely bore, The love that never faints, Their glory evermore— For these the Church today Pours forth her joyous lay; What victors wear so rich a bay? This clinging world of ill Them and their works abhorred; Its withering flowers still They spurned with one accord; They knew them short lived all, How soon they fade and fall, And followed, Jesu, at Thy call. What tongue may here declare, Fancy or thought descry, The joys Thou dost prepare For these Thy saints on high? Empurpled in the flood Of their victorious blood, They won the laurel from their God. O Lord most high, we pray, Stretch forth Thy mighty arm To put our sins away And shelter us from harm; O give Thy servants peace; From guilt and pain release; Our praise to Thee shall never cease. |