The Blessed Sacrament

Lo, from Thy Father’s bosom Thou dost sigh; Deep to Thy restlessness His ear is bent:-- “Father, the Paraclete is sent, Wrapt in a foaming wind He passeth by. Behold, men’s hearts are shaken--I must die: Sure as a star within the firmament Must be my dying: lo, my wood is rent, My cross is sunken! Father, I must die!” Lo, how God loveth us, He looseth hold.... His Son is back among us, with His own, And craving at our hands an altar-stone. Thereon, a victim, meek He takes His place; And while to offer Him His priests make bold, He looketh upward to His Father’s face.