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44° The Book of Praise.
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For ever with the Lord ! Amen ! so let it be ! Life from the dead is in that word, 'Tis immortality !
Here in the body pent, Absent from Him I roam, Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home.
My Father's house on high, Home of my soul! how near, At times, to faith's far-seeing eye, Thy golden gates appear !
Ah ! then my spirit faints To reach the land I love, The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above !
Yet clouds will intervene, And all my prospect flies ; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies.
Anon the clouds depart, The winds and waters cease ; While sweetly o'er my gladden'd heart Expands the bow of peace !
Beneath its glowing arch, Along the hallow'd ground, I see cherubic armies march, A camp of fire around. |
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