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Rh When angry passions fill my soul, Subdue them to thy meek control; Through good and ill, oh, ever be A guide, a guard, a friend to me.

And when death's hand shall seal mine eyes, Oh, bear my spirit to the skies, And teach me there my voice to raise In hymns of never-ending praise.

 

Saint, in thy young childhood's day The thought was in thy infant head, That it were sweet to die for Christ, And for the faith thy blood to shed.

But God decreed thee not to fall By sword of Paynim, Turk, or Moor; A living death of martyrdom His love reserv'd thee to endure.

Thy youthful follies oft deplor'd To us have made thee still more dear; Since we in them have come to know Thy candour and thy truth sincere.

For when thy Lord, with sweet reproof, Had made to thee thine errors known, At once thy frank and loving heart Was wholly kept for him alone.

Oh, what a strange instructive scene Thy life thenceforth began to be! Now suffering dread unheard-of pain, Now lost in wondrous ecstacy. 