Second Sunday after Epiphany

Mysterious is Thy presence. Lord!
Awful Thy power divine.
The water hears Thy faintest word
And blushes into wine.

The clouds, that round us dark and low
With threatening aspect move,
If Thou dost look upon them, glow
With rainbow lights of love.

The grain, that from the sower's hand
Is scatter'd on the mould,
Soon in the valleys thick shall stand,
Return'd a thousand fold.

The dews, which evening skies distil
Around the creeping vine.
At Thy command arise and fill
The Wood-red grape with wine.

Thus holy truths around us lie
Doing their humble part.
But wanting the attentive eye.
And the believing heart.

Thus at Thy Holy Feast, Lord,
We kneel, and we believe
That that which Thy creative Word
Hath made it, we receive.

Though naught, or worse than naught to some.
Yet, rightly understood.
The bread Thy Body doth become.
The wine Thy precious Blood.

Mysterious truth! which human pride
Must bow to and adore.
Which in our heart of hearts we hide.
Believe, and ask no more.