138. Lauds—Saturday
{241}
Aurora jam spargit polum.
THE dawn is sprinkled o'er the sky,
The day steals
softly on;
Its darts are scatter'd far and nigh,
And all that fraudful is, shall fly
Before the
brightening sun;
Spectres of ill, that stalk at will,
And forms of guilt
that fright,
And hideous sin, that ventures in
Under the cloak of
night.
And of our crimes the tale complete,
Which bows us in
Thy sight,
Up to the latest, they shall fleet,
Out-told by our full numbers sweet,
And melted by the
light. {242}
To Father, Son, and Spirit, One,
Whom we adore and
love,
Be given all praise, now and always,
Here as in Heaven
above.