Salutaris Hostia

When the moon is last awake, Silver-thin above the fields, Crushed, like roses, for Thy sake, All my soul its fragrance yields. All my hungry heart is fed Sundering sweetness like a sword, O my Lord, Hidden within Thy broken bread.

Hands of morning, take the cup Whence the Life of Love is drained; Hold it, raise it, lift it up Till the lucent heavens be stained. Joy and sorrow, lip to lip, Lost in likeness at the end, O my Friend, Taste Thy wine of fellowship.

All life's splendour, all life's pride, Dust are they. I lay them down. They were thorns that when You died Wove for You a wounding crown. But the brier of death's in bud, All its loveliness he knows, Sharon's Rose, That has shared Thy flesh and blood.