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The Book of Praise.
Hasten, dear Lord, the glorious day, And this delightful scene display, When all Thy saints from death shall rise Raptured in bliss beyond the skies !
Soon shall the trumpet sound, and we
Shall rise to immortality.
Rowland Hill.
CLIII.
My life's a shade, my days Apace to death decline ; My Lord is Life, He'll raise My dust again, ev'n mine.
Sweet truth to me !
I shall arise,
And with these eyes
My Saviour see.
My peaceful grave shall keep My bones till that sweet day : I wake from my long sleep And leave my bed of clay.
Sweet truth to me !
I shall arise,
And with these eyes
My Saviour see.
My Lord His angels shall Their golden trumpets sound, At whose most welcome call My grave shall be unbound.
Sweet truth to me !
I shall arise,
And with these eyes
My Saviour see. |
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