Sexagesima Sunday

Sweet is the gentle voice of Spring,
Whose breathing, soft and deep.
Calls, with its quiet whispering.
The wintry world from sleep;
But sweeter far, my God, to me
Thy life-reviving voice.
Which bids my sleeping soul for Thee
Awaken and rejoice.

And bounteous is the sower's hand.
As o'er the furrow'd plain
He scatters broad-cast on the land
The seed of golden grain;
Yet still more bountiful Thou art
To me, my gracious Lord,
Who daily sowest in my heart
That precious seed. Thy Word.

From evil thoughts, foul birds of air
That hov'ring round me stay
To stoop upon my heart, and bear
The seed of life away;
From feelings that as such alone
Leave no abiding joy.
From cares and pleasures, all too prone
My comfort to destroy;

O Lord, preserve, preserve and bless
Thy work with large increase,
That I may thus my soul possess
In patience and in peace;
So shall my love Thy truth adore.
And, for Thy gifts untold.
Thine own shall unto Thee restore
More than an hundred-fold.