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The New Zealand Spectator and Cook’s Strait Guardian, Saturday, April 19, 1862

The nation’s prayer

The nation’s prayer.

“Now therefore let us cry unto Heaven.”

A bold hath fallen on the land!
Speechless, aghast the people stand.
Omnipotent! stretch forth Thine hand,
Our Queen sustain!

Ere ceas’d a daughter’s tears to flow,
Ere cast aside her weeds of woe,
Another and a mightier blow
To heart and brain!

Scarce closed the grave she knelt beside,
Woe, woe, another opening wide
Entombs her hope, her gladness, pride!
Woe, woe, our Queen!

A sunbeam quench’d in clouds of night,
A green oak scath’d in scorching blight,
An eagle shaft struck in his flight,
Lord, have we seen.

What gaz’d we on but yesterday?
A prince in manhood’s proud array!
What greet we now? Fast fading clay,
Cold, pulseless, pale!

What meets the eye? what fills the ear?
The knell of death, night-tolling drear:
A shroud, a pall, a purple bier,
A requiem wail.

To Thee, great God! we lift our eyes.
Low in the dust our glory lies!
Count not our sins, nor yet despise
Our suppliant cry!

Help Thou our Queen—Thy servant spare!
Her stay remov’d, her life’s lov’d care;
Where shall she look for solace, where
Fresh hope descry?

In hers their loss, her children weep,
Woe’s vigil mute her people keep,
Their eyes refusing balmy sleep,
Their souls dismay’d.

Vain, vain condolence, vain and weak!
No mortal tongue may comfort speak,
Where shall the stricken mourner seek
Consoling aid?

To Thee, O Lord, a nation cries;
To Thee we raise our streaming eyes;
To Thee, in ashes, sacrifice,
Bow’d down with grief.

Sadly we watch our Prince and friend
Into the dull, cold tomb descend;
But she, O God, Thine angels send
With swift relief.

The pang too keen, the loss too great,
For earth to soothe, to compensate;
Almighty, Thine to mitigate
That anguish dire.

Of that dread shock, that wild’ring blow,
O break the force! O still the throe!
Give her Thy healing touch to know,
Fresh faith inspire.

O raise her up; O strengthen, cheer;
Lord, Lord, our supplications hear;
Make her to feel that Thou art near;
Her Father, Friend.

O bind the bruis’d, the bleeding heart;
O charm the anguish of the smart;
The balm of balms, Thy peace, impart;
Thy graces lend.

Sweet thoughts and calm be hers, O Lord;
Sweet hopes and true to her accord;
Smite not again; O sheathe the sword
With pitying mien.

Our grave misdeeds, Lord, we confess;
Thy power we own, Thy name we bless;
Have mercy on our sore distress;
Help Thou our Queen.

Through the proud isles, from sea to sea,
Where love is found and loyalty,
Our widowed Queen thrice dear shall be,
Our sacred care.

Help, guide her, guard; up to the sky,
O, King of kings, ascends the cry,
And fervent millions lift on high
Their hands in prayer.

Lo, the glad festival draws near,
To Christians, saints, and angels dear,
When He who came to soothe and cheer
First smiled on men.

Be with her on that blessed day;
Let not her courage faint away;
Sustain her, gracious Lord, we pray,
Amen. Amen.