Third Sunday in Advent

As odours, press'd in summer hours
From summer's bloom, remain;
To soothe and comfort, till the flowers
Of spring revive again;

So, till ' the Rose of Sharon' bloom
Once more, the desert's pride,
We feed upon the rich perfume
It yielded when it died.

'In earthen vessels,' weak and frail,
The heav'nly treasure lies;
Enriching every passing gale,
With fragrance of the skies, —

Faint breathings of the blessed morn,
That Advent shall restore,
When Christ shall to His own return,
Nor ever leave them more.

Thy sacred ministers, O Lord,
Who at Thine altars stand,
Who break the bread, who ' preach the word/
And wait on Thy command, —

Like censers in this world of sin,
Full of Thy fragrant love,
Till fresher fragrance usher in
Thine Advent from above; —

O fill them with Thy grace, that they
To God and sinners true
May lead as well as point the way,
And what they teach may do.

And all our hearts make ' holy ground/
So, at Thine Advent, we
A people ready shall be found,
Prepared Lord for Thee.