Monday in Whitsun-Week

How glorious in the sacred page
The triumphs of that golden age,
When, in her morning hour,
The Church went forth with might divine,
And giant-like, refresh'd with wine,
Put forth her primal power.

Fresh from her baptism of fire,
Elate with hope and fond desire
She rose, as set her Sun:
Looked to the crown, upreared the Cross,
And never dreamed of let or loss,
But felt the world was won.

Hers was to do, and hers to dare,
Upon her Lord she roll'd the care
He gladly made His own;
What lay before her here below
Of trials, martyrdom, or woe,
To her was all unknown.

She only sought to lift on high,
And keep, in unstain'd purity,
The banner which she bore;
Christ's love exalt, Christ's praise proclaim,
And teach how by no other name
She could the lost restore.

And thus she conquer'd, far and wide
She glorified the Crucified,
And by His holy word
Dagons upon their thresholds lay,
And souls, by thousands, day by day,
Were added to the Lord.

Deem we, in less successful hours,
The secret of these wondrous powers
Lay simply in the might
Which miracles and tongues could give?
Can these make souls of dead men live,
Restore blind hearts their sight?

They were her glory, and her grace,
They proved her rights, maintain'd her place,
Avouch'd her from above;
But she had better gifts by far,
Which were to these as sun to star —
The gifts of faith and love.

With these God's Church as then is blest, —
O covet them, they are the best
That e'er adorn'd her prime;
And they, who use them well below,
A way more excellent shall know,
In His own blessed time.

Had we but faith with Heav'n to plead,
Faith, as a grain of mustard-seed,
Simply to trust, and try;
Pow'r — yea to cast into the sea
A mountain — if such need may be, —
Our Lord would not deny.