Refreshed we rise, and for this bread that feeds,

By law of man's weak flesh, our daily needs,

Let every tongue, the Father's praises sing;

The Father Who on His exalted throne,

O'er Cherubim and Seraphim, alone

Reigns in His majesty, Eternal King.

God of Sabaoth is His name: 'tis He

Who ne'er began and ne'er shall cease to be,

Builder of worlds created at His word;

Fountain of Life that flows from out the sky,

He breathes within us Faith and Purity,

Great Conqueror of Death, Salvation's Lord.

From Him each creature life and vigour gains,

And over all the Eternal Spirit reigns

Who cometh from the Father and the Son:

When, dovelike, on pure hearts the heavenly Guest

Descends, they are by God's own presence blest,

As temples where His holy work is done.

But if the taint of vice or guile arise

Within the consecrated shrine, He flies

With speed from out the sin-defilèd cell;

For, driven forth by guilt's black, surging tide,

The offended Godhead may not there abide

Where conscious sin and noisome foulness dwell.

Not chastity nor childlike faith alone

Build up for Christ an everlasting throne

Deep in the inmost heart, devoid of shame:

But watchful ever must His servants be,

Lest the dark power of sated gluttony

Should bind about the abode of faith its chain.

Yet simple saints, content with frugal fare,

More surely find the Spirit present there,

Who is our soul's true strength and heavenly food:

Thy love for us a twofold feast supplies,

O Father, whence the soul may strengthened rise

And eke the body gain new hardihood.

Thus, fed and sheltered by Thy matchless might,

The lions' hideous roar could not affright

Thy loyal servant in the days of old:

He boldly cursed the molten deity

And stood with stubborn head uplifted high

That scorned to bow before a god of gold.

Then Babylon's vile mob with fury glows;

Death is his doom; and straight the tyrant throws

The youth to be his savage lions' prey:

But faith and piety Thou still dost save,

For lo! the untamed brutes no longer rave,

But round God's unscathed child they gently play.

Close by his side they stand with drooping mane,

The grisly, gaping jaws from blood refrain

And with rough tongues their whilom prey caress:

But when in prayer he raised his hands to heaven

And called the God, from Whom such help was given,

Close-prisoned, hungry, and in sore distress,

A wingèd messenger to earth He sends,

Who swiftly through the parting clouds descends

To feed His servant, proven by the test:

By chance he sees from far the unbought fare

Which the good seer Habakkuk's kindly care

With rustic art had for the reapers dressed:

Then, grasping in strong hand the prophet's hair,

He bears him gently through the rushing air,

Still burdened with the platter's savoury load,

Till o'er the lions' den at last they stayed

And straightway to the starving youth displayed

The food thus brought, by God's good grace bestowed.