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The Book of Praise.
The pity of the Lord To those that fear His Name, Is such as tender parents feel; He knows our feeble frame.
Our days are as the grass, Or like the morning flower ; If one sharp blast sweep o'er the field, It withers in an hour.
But Thy compassions, Lord, To endless years endure, And children's children ever find Thy words of promise sure.
Isaac Watts, i
CXLIII.
There is a fountain fill'd with blood Drawn from Emmanuel's veins ;
And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.
The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day; And there have I, as vile as he,
Wash'd all my sins away.
Dear dying Lamb ! Thy precious Blood
Shall never lose its power, Till all the ransom'd Church of God
Be saved, to sin no more.
E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream
Thy flowing wounds supply, Redeeming love has been my theme,
And shall be till I die. |
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