(June 26, 1902)
We thought to speed our earthly King
Triumphant on his way
Unto his solemn Sacreing
Before Thy throne to-day;
His royal robes were wrought, prepared
His sceptre, orb and crown,
And all earth's Princes here repaired
To heighten his renown;
When, hurtling out of bluest Heaven,
Thy bolt upon us fell;
Our head is pierced, our heart is riven,
Struck dumb the Minster bell.
Yet flags still flutter far and wide;
The league-long garlands glow,
Still London wears her gala pride
Above a breast of woe.
Lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers
Their joyful use forget?
Nay, on this stricken realm of ours
Have Thou compassion yet.
Long years ago our Edward lay
Thus fighting for his breath,
Yet to such prayers as now we pray
Thou gavest him back from death.
Then o'er the tempest of his pain,
His cry of perishing thrill,
Let Thy right arm go forth again,
Thy saving "Peace! be still!"
Until to all his strength restored
Thy Spirit lead Him down,
In solemn state, Almighty Lord,
To take from Thee his crown.