Blest Cross-bearer, Source of good,

Light-creating, Word-begot,

Gracious child of maidenhood,

Bosomed in the Fatherhood,

When earth, sea and stars were not.

With Thy cloudless, healing gaze

Shine upon me from above:

Let Thine all-enlightening rays

Bless this meal and quicken praise,

Praise unto Thy name of Love.

Lord, without Thee nought is sweet,

Nought my life can satisfy,

If Thy favour make not meet

What I drink and what I eat;

Let faith all things sanctify!

O'er this bread God's grace be poured,

Christ's sweet fragrance fill the bowl!

Rule my converse, Triune Lord,

Sober thought and sportive word,

All my acts and all my soul.

Spoils of rose-trees are not spent,

Nor rich unguents on my board:

But ambrosial sweets are sent,

Of faith's nectar redolent,

From the bosom of my Lord.

Scorn, my Muse, light ivy-leaves

Wherewith custom wreathed thy brow:

Love a mystic crown conceives

And a rhythmic garland weaves:

Bind on thee God's praises now.

What more worthy gift can I,

Child of light and aether, bring

Than for boons the Maker high

From His bounty doth supply

Lovingly my thanks to sing?

He hath set 'neath our command

All that ever rose to be,

All that sky and sea and land

Breed in air, in glebe and sand,

Made my slaves, His own made me.

Fowler's craft with gin and net

Feathered tribes of heaven ensnares:

Osier twigs with lime o'erset

That their airy flight may let

His relentless guile prepares.

Lo! with woven mesh the seine

Swimming shoals draws from the wave:

Nor do fish the bait disdain

Till they feel the barb's swift pain,

Captives of the food they crave.

Native wealth that knows no fail,

Golden wheat springs from the field:

Tendrils lush o'er vineyards trail,

Nursed of Peace the olives pale

Berries green unbidden yield.

Christ's grace fills His people's need

With these mercies ever fresh:

Far from us be that foul greed,

Gluttony that loves to feed

On slain oxen's bloodstained flesh.

Leave to the barbarian brood

Banquet of the slaughtered beast:

Ours the homely, garden food,

Greenstuff manifold and good

And the lentils' harmless feast.

Foaming milkpails bubble o'er

With the udders' snowy stream,

Which in thickening churns we pour

Or in wicker baskets store,

As the cheese is pressed from cream.

Honey's nectar for our use

From the new-made comb is shed:

Which the skilful bee imbues

With thyme's scent and airy dews,

Plying lonely toils unwed.

Orchard-groves now mellowed o'er

Bounteously their fruitage shed:

See! like rain on forest floor

Shaken trees their riches pour,

High-heaped apples, ripe and red.

What great trumpet voice or lyre

Famed of yore could fitly praise

Gifts of the Almighty Sire,

Blessings that His own require,

Richly lavished through their days?

When morn breaks upon our sight,

Hymns, O Lord, to Thee shall ring:

Thee, when streams the midday light,

Thee, when shadows of the night

Bid us sup, our voices sing.

For my body's vital heat,

For my heart-blood's pulsing vein,

For my tongue and speech complete

Unto Thee, Most High, 'tis meet

That I raise my grateful strain.