Feast of the Assumption of the B. V. Mary

See, to God's high temple above

Mounts amid angel hymns of love,

The mystical ark of grace:

See aloft on victory's throne,

Blended in glory both Mother and Son,

In one eternal embrace!

All the sorrows her bosom bore,

All her pains and afflictions sore,

At length supremely repaid;—

There she reigns on the cloudless height,

Only less than the Lord of light,

In hues immortal arrayed.

There she lives as a fount of grace,

Ever flowing for Adam's race,

And still for ever to flow;

There, while ages on ages run,

Sweetly, sweetly, she pleads with her Son

For us her children below.

Lady, than all the heavens more high,

More than seraph in purity,

A glance of pity incline!

Teach us to feel, teach us to know,

Teach us in life and death to shew

What treasures of grace are thine.