Blessèd feasts of blessèd martyrs,
Saintly days of saintly men,
With affection’s recollections
Greet we your return again.
Mighty deeds they wrought, and wonders,
While a frame of flesh they bore;
We, with meetest praise and sweetest,
Honor them forevermore.

Faith unblenching, hope unquenching,
Well-loved Lord, and single heart,
Thus they, glorious and victorious,
Bravely bore the martyr’s part.
Blood in slaughter poured like water,
Torments long and heavy chain,
Flame, and axe, and laceration,
They endured, and conquered pain.

While they passed through divers tortures,
Till they sank by death opprest,
Earth’s rejected were elected,
To have portion with the blest.
By contempt of worldly pleasures,
And by mighty battle done;
Have they merited with angels,
To be knit for ay in one.

Wherefore made co-heirs of glory,
Ye that sit with Christ on high,
Join to ours your supplication
As for grace and peace we cry,
That, this weary life completed,
And its many labors past,
We may merit to be seated
In our Father’s home at last.

Flung to the heedless winds,
Or on the waters cast,
The martyrs’ ashes, watched,
Shall gathered be at last.

And from that scattered dust,
Around us and abroad,
Shall spring a plenteous seed,
Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath received,
Their latest living breath,
And vain is Satan’s boast,
Of victory in their death.

Still, still, though dead, they speak,
And, trumpet tongued, proclaim,
To many a wakening land,
The one availing Name.

Martyr of God, whose strength was steeled
To follow close God’s only Son,
Well didst thou brave thy battlefield,
And well thy heavenly bliss was won!

Now join thy prayers with ours, who pray
That God may pardon us and bless;
For prayer keeps evil’s plague away,
And draws from life its weariness.

Long, long ago, were loosed the chains
That held thy body once in thrall;
For us how many a bond remains!
O Love of God release us all.

All praise to God the Father be,
All praise to Thee, eternal Son;
All praise, O Holy Ghost, to Thee
While never ending ages run.

The merits of the saints,
Blessèd for evermore,
Their love that never faints,
The toils they bravely bore—
For these the Church today
Pours forth her joyous lay—
These victors win the noblest bay.

They, whom the world of ill,
While it yet held, abhorred;
Its withering flowers that still
They spurned with one accord—
They knew them short lived all,
And followed at Thy call,
King Jesu, to Thy heavenly hall.

Like sheep their blood they poured,
And without groan or tear,
They bent before the sword,
For that their King most dear:
Their souls, serenely blest,
In patience they possessed,
And looked in hope towards their rest.

What tongue may here declare,
Fancy or thought descry,
The joys Thou dost prepare
For these Thy saints on high!
Empurpled in the flood
Of their victorious blood,
They won the laurel from their God.

To Thee, O Lord most high,
One in three Persons still,
To pardon us we cry,
And to preserve from ill:
Here give Thy servants peace,
Hereafter glad release,
And pleasures that shall never cease.