Once more the so­lemn sea­son calls
A ho­ly fast to keep;
And now with­in the tem­ple walls
Let priest and peo­ple weep.

But vain all out­ward sign of grief,
And vain the form of pray­er,
Unless the heart im­plore relief,
And pe­ni­tence be there.

We smite the breast, we weep in vain,
In vain in ash­es mourn,
Unless with pe­ni­ten­tial pain
The smit­ten soul be torn.

In sor­row true then let us pray
To our of­fend­ed God,
From us to turn His wrath away
And stay the up­lift­ed rod.

O God, our judge and fa­ther, deign
To spare the bruis­èd reed;
We pray for time to turn again,
For grace to turn in­deed.

Blest Three in One to Thee we bow;
Vouchsafe us, in Thy love,
To ga­ther from these fasts be­low
Immortal fruit above.