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182 The Book of Praise.
The busy tribes of flesh and blood, With all their lives and cares,
Are carried downwards by Thy flood, And lost in following years.
Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.
Our God, our help in ages past;
Our hope for years to come ; Be Thou our guard while troubles last,
And our eternal home !
Isaac Watts, i^ity |
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END OF PART L |
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