St.
Mary Magdalene
1st Evensong
71
Sing
we now the praise of Mary - Collaudemus Magdalene -
Sing we now the praise of Mary,
All her tears, her joy, her love;
High in laud we raise our voices,
While our hearts in concert move;
So the nightingale descanteth
Sweetly to the plaintive dove.
Nought the number of the feasters,
Seeking Jesus, did she fear;
She her Master's feet anointed,
Wash'd them with the falling tear,
Wiped them with her tresses, gaining
Pardon through her love sincere.
Lo, the cleans'd doth wash the Cleanser,
Stream to Fountain floweth fain;
Balm that from the flower distilleth,
Fragrance sheds on flower again;
And the dew from earth ascendeth
To the heav'n that gave the rain.
Spikenard in the alabaster
Is her offering pure and rare;
She, in pouring of the ointment,
Doth a mystic sign declare;
Sick, anointeth her Physician,
To receive His healing care.
Gazed the Lord with special favour
Down on Mary tenderly;
Much she loves; her sins, though many,
Have forgiveness full and free;
On the Resurrection-morning
She shall Jesus' herald be.
Glory be to God, and honour,
Who, true Paschal Sacrifice,
Lamb in death, in strife a Lion,
Did the third day Victor rise,
And the spoils of death, as trophies,
Bare triumphant to the skies.
All her tears, her joy, her love;
High in laud we raise our voices,
While our hearts in concert move;
So the nightingale descanteth
Sweetly to the plaintive dove.
Nought the number of the feasters,
Seeking Jesus, did she fear;
She her Master's feet anointed,
Wash'd them with the falling tear,
Wiped them with her tresses, gaining
Pardon through her love sincere.
Lo, the cleans'd doth wash the Cleanser,
Stream to Fountain floweth fain;
Balm that from the flower distilleth,
Fragrance sheds on flower again;
And the dew from earth ascendeth
To the heav'n that gave the rain.
Spikenard in the alabaster
Is her offering pure and rare;
She, in pouring of the ointment,
Doth a mystic sign declare;
Sick, anointeth her Physician,
To receive His healing care.
Gazed the Lord with special favour
Down on Mary tenderly;
Much she loves; her sins, though many,
Have forgiveness full and free;
On the Resurrection-morning
She shall Jesus' herald be.
Glory be to God, and honour,
Who, true Paschal Sacrifice,
Lamb in death, in strife a Lion,
Did the third day Victor rise,
And the spoils of death, as trophies,
Bare triumphant to the skies.
Vigils
72
As the Gardener, Him addressing - Estimavit
hortolanum - Neale
As
the Gardener, Him addressing,
Well and rightly she believ'd:
He, the Sower, gave His blessing
To the seed her heart receiv'd:
Not at first His Form confessing,
Soon His Voice her soul perceiv'd.
She beheld, as yet not knowing
In the mystical disguise,
Christ, That in her breast was sowing
Deep and heavenly mysteries:
Till His Voice, her name bestowing,
Bade her hear and recognize.
She to Jesus, Jesus weepeth,
Of her Lord removed complains;
Jesus in her breast she keepeth;
Jesus seeks, yet still retains:
He That soweth, He That reapeth
All her heart, unknown remains.
Why, kind Jesu, why thus hiding,
When Thyself Thou would'st reveal?
Why, in Mary's breast abiding,
From her love Thyself conceal?
Why, True Light, in her residing,
Can she not Its radiance feel?
Oh, how strangely Thou eludest
Souls that on Thee have believ'd!
But eluding, ne'er deludest,
Nor deceiv'st, nor art deceiv'd;
But including, still excludest;
Fully known, yet not perceiv'd.
Laud to Thee and praise for ever,
Life, Hope, Light of every soul!
Through Thy merits may we never
Be inscribed in Death's dark roll,
But with Mary's true endeavour
All our sins, like her, condole! Amen.
Well and rightly she believ'd:
He, the Sower, gave His blessing
To the seed her heart receiv'd:
Not at first His Form confessing,
Soon His Voice her soul perceiv'd.
She beheld, as yet not knowing
In the mystical disguise,
Christ, That in her breast was sowing
Deep and heavenly mysteries:
Till His Voice, her name bestowing,
Bade her hear and recognize.
She to Jesus, Jesus weepeth,
Of her Lord removed complains;
Jesus in her breast she keepeth;
Jesus seeks, yet still retains:
He That soweth, He That reapeth
All her heart, unknown remains.
Why, kind Jesu, why thus hiding,
When Thyself Thou would'st reveal?
Why, in Mary's breast abiding,
From her love Thyself conceal?
Why, True Light, in her residing,
Can she not Its radiance feel?
Oh, how strangely Thou eludest
Souls that on Thee have believ'd!
But eluding, ne'er deludest,
Nor deceiv'st, nor art deceiv'd;
But including, still excludest;
Fully known, yet not perceiv'd.
Laud to Thee and praise for ever,
Life, Hope, Light of every soul!
Through Thy merits may we never
Be inscribed in Death's dark roll,
But with Mary's true endeavour
All our sins, like her, condole! Amen.
Lauds and 2nd Evensong
73
Weep
not, Mary, weep no longer - Maria, noli flere -
Weep not, Mary, weep no longer,
Nor another seek to find:
Here indeed the Gardener standeth,
Gardener of the thirsty mind.
In the spirit's inner garden
Seek that Gardener ever kind.
Whence thy grief and lamentation?
Lift, faint soul, thy heart on high,
Seek not memory's consolation,
Jesus Whom thou lov'st is nigh;
Dost thou seek the Lord? thou hast Him,
Though unseen by human eye.
Whence thy sorrow, whence thy weeping?
True the joy thou hast within;
Undiscerned abides within thee
Balm to heal the wounds of sin;
'Tis within, why, vainly roving,
Seek disease's medicine?
'Tis no wonder if thy Master
Pass thy knowledge while He sows;
For His seed, the word eternal,
Unto fulness in thee grows;
"Mary," saith He—thou, " Rabboni,"—
And the soul her Saviour knows.
Thou didst wash the feet of Jesus,
Thee the Fount of grace did lave;
May we, by that dew's refreshment,
Which to thee remission gave,
Share His glory, Whom thou sawest,
Risen a Victor from the grave.
Nor another seek to find:
Here indeed the Gardener standeth,
Gardener of the thirsty mind.
In the spirit's inner garden
Seek that Gardener ever kind.
Whence thy grief and lamentation?
Lift, faint soul, thy heart on high,
Seek not memory's consolation,
Jesus Whom thou lov'st is nigh;
Dost thou seek the Lord? thou hast Him,
Though unseen by human eye.
Whence thy sorrow, whence thy weeping?
True the joy thou hast within;
Undiscerned abides within thee
Balm to heal the wounds of sin;
'Tis within, why, vainly roving,
Seek disease's medicine?
'Tis no wonder if thy Master
Pass thy knowledge while He sows;
For His seed, the word eternal,
Unto fulness in thee grows;
"Mary," saith He—thou, " Rabboni,"—
And the soul her Saviour knows.
Thou didst wash the feet of Jesus,
Thee the Fount of grace did lave;
May we, by that dew's refreshment,
Which to thee remission gave,
Share His glory, Whom thou sawest,
Risen a Victor from the grave.
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