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It can bring with it nothing,
But He will bear us through :
Who gives the lilies clothing,
Will clothe His people too.

Beneath the spreading heavens
No creature but is fed;
And He who feeds the ravens,

Will give His children bread.

Though vine nor fig-tree either

Their wonted fruit should bear; Though all the field should wither, Nor flock nor herd be there;

Yet God the same abiding,

His praise shall tune my voice; For, while in Him confiding,

I cannot but rejoice.

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How sweet the name of Jesus sounds

In a believer's ear!

It soothes his sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear.

It makes the wounded spirit whole,
It calms the troubled breast;
'Tis manna to the hungry soul,

And to the weary, rest.

Dear name! the rock on which I build !

My shield and hiding-place;

My never-failing treasury, filled

With boundless stores of grace.

Jesus! my shepherd, husband, friend,
My prophet, priest, and king;
My Lord, my life, my way, my end,
Accept the praise I bring.

Weak is the effort of my heart,

And cold my warmest thought; But when I see Thee as thou art, I'll praise Thee as I ought.

BLESSED ARE THE DEAD THAT DIE IN THE LORD."

IN vain our fancy strives to paint
The moment after death,

The glories that surround the saint,
When he resigns his breath.

One gentle sigh his fetters breaks;
We scarce can say, he's gone,'
Before the willing spirit takes
Her mansion near the throne,

Faith strives, but all its efforts fail,
To trace her heavenward flight;
No eye can pierce within the veil
Which hides that world of light.

Thus much (and this is all) we know,
They are supremely blest;

Have done with sin, and care, and woe,
And with their Saviour rest.

On harps of gold his name they praise,

His presence always view ;—

And if we here their footsteps trace,

There we shall praise Him too.

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