Vincitur semper minor obsequentum
cura, nec munus genitoris aequat,
frangit et cratem luteam laboris

                    grandior usus. 60

Ergo ne limum fragilem solutae
deserant vires et aquosus albis
humor in venis dominetur aegrum

                    corpus inervans,

Laxus ac liber modus abstinendi 65
ponitur cunctis, neque nos severus
terror inpellit, sua quemque cogit

                    velle potestas.

Sufficit, quidquid facias, vocato
numinis nutu prius, inchoare, 70
sive tu mensam renuas cibumve

                    sumere temptes.

Adnuit dexter Deus et secundo
prosperat vultu, velut hoc salubre
fidimus nobis fore, quod dicatas 75

                    carpimus escas.

Sit bonum, supplex precor et medelam
conferat membris, animumque pascat
sparsus in venas cibus obsecrantum

                    christicolarum. 80

VIII.  Hymn after fasting

O Christ, of all Thy servants Guide,
Mild is the yoke Thou mak’st us bear,
Leading us gently by Thy side
With gracious care.

Thy love took up our life’s hard load
And spent in grievous toils its might: 
Thy bond-slaves tread the easier road
Led by Thy light.

  Nine hours have run their course away,
    The sun sped three parts of its race: 
  And what remains of the short day
        Fadeth apace.

  The holy fast hath reached its end;
    Our table now Thou loadest, Lord: 
  With all Thy gifts true gladness send
        To grace our board.

  Such is our Master’s gentle sway,
    So kind the teaching in His school,
  That all find rest who will obey
        His easy rule.

  Thou would’st not have us scorn the grace
    Of cleanliness and vesture fair: 
  Thou lovest not a soiled face
        And unkempt hair.

  Let him that fasts, Thou saidst, be clean,
    Nor lose health’s fair and ruddy glow: 
  Let no wan sallowness be seen
        Upon his brow.

  ’Tis better in glad modesty
    Of our good works to shun display: 
  God sees what ’scapes our neighbour’s eye
        And will repay.

  That Shepherd keen seeks one lost sheep
    Sickly and weak, strayed from the fold,
  Fleece torn with briers of thickets deep,
        Foolishly bold.

  He drives the wolves far from the track: 
    And found He brings on shoulders borne
  To sunlit pen the wanderer back,
        No more forlorn: 

  Yea, to the meads and grassy fields
    The lamb restores, where no thorn balks,
  No rough burrs tear, no thistle yields
        Its bristling stalks: