Third Sunday in Lent

Not always in the goodliest rite,
The swept and garnished ground
Of forms, most fair to human sight,
Is Jesus to be found.

For the mere words, with which we claim
His love, He doth not care;
We must be gathered in His name,
Or else He is not there.

And tho' He ever hears the cry
Of those whose hearts complain.
And none, who seek Him earnestly,
Can seek His face in vain, —

Yet men may fast from week to week,
In form may mourn and pray,
While the good gifts they seem to seek,
May still be far away.

In prayer and fasting let us strive
To keep our bodies down,
To save our precious souls alive
And win a glorious crown.

For it is hard to conquer sin,
And climb the narrow road,
And wishes only will not win
An entrance unto God.

Yet on those blessed means of grace
Our souls must not depend;
Theirs simply is the handmaid's place
Of means unto an end.

But used in faith, with grace they teem
For every troubled mind,
As to the leper Jordan's stream,
As Siloam to the blind.

Nor must we only for awhile
Put off the sins we mourn,
To flatter conscience, and beguile
The hours till they return:

But low in penitence must lie
In deed as well as word,
Cut off the hand, pluck out the eye
Offensive to the Lord.

Use thus, my soul, with equal care
This sad but gracious time,
For prayerless fast, or fastless prayer,
To God shall never climb.

Watch lest the blessings offer'd thee
Thro' thine own fault be curst,
And thy last state may haply be
Far worse than was thy first.