XVII.

From end to end, O God, Thy Will With swift yet ordered might doth reach: Thy purposes their scope fulfil In sequence, resting each on each.

In Thee is nothing sudden; nought From harmony and law that swerves: The orbits of Thine act and thought In soft succession wind their curves.

O then with what a gradual care Must thou have shaped that sacred shrine, That Ark of grace, ordained to bear The burthen of the Babe divine!

How many a gift within her breast Lay stored, for Him a couch to strew! How many a virtue lined His nest! How many a grace beside Him grew!

Of love on love what sweet excess! How deep a faith! a hope how high!— Mary! on earth of thee we guess; But we shall see thee when we die!