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No longer must the mourners weep,

Nor call departed Christians dead;
For death is hallowed into sleep
And every grave becomes a bed.

Now once more
Eden's door

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THUS saith God of His Anointed;

1 He shall let my people go ;
'Tis the work for Him appointed,
'Tis the work that He shall do ;

And my city
He shall found, and build it too.

He whom man with scorn refuses,

Whom the favored nation hates,
He it is Jehovah chooses,
Him the highest place awaits ;

Kings and princes
Shall do homage at His gates.

He shall humble all the scorners,

He shall fill His foes with shame;
He shall raise and comfort mourners
By the sweetness of His name;

To the captives
He shall liberty proclaim.

He shall gather those that wandered ;

When they hear the trumpet's sound,
They shall join the sacred standard,
• They shall come and Aock around;

He shall save them,
They shall be with glory crowned.

Thomas Kelley. 1809.


CATHER, I call on thee,
T Through the dun smoke and the clangor of battle,
The lightning and dread thunder's rattle ;
War's great Dispenser, I call on thee.

Thou, Father, lead me. '

Thou, Father, lead me;
Lead me to victory, or lead me to death.
Lord, in thy hand is my breath ;
Lord, as thou willest, so lead me.

God, I would know thee.

God, I would know thee;
When, like the autumn leaves driven together,
Hofts meet in war's thunder-weather,
Source of my faith, I would know thee.

Thou, Father, bless me.

Thou, Father, bless me.
Into thy hands would my freed spirit go;
Recall it, for thou didst bestow.
In life and in death do thou bless me.

Father, I praise thee.

Father, I praise thee.
This is the field for the fight of the Lord;
Guard we our faith with the sword.
In fall or in triumph, I praise thee.

God, I give all to thee.

God, I give all to thee. When, on the battle-field, death sends me greeting, When my warm life-blood is Aeeting, Take me, for thou hast redeemed me.

Father, I call on thee.

From the German of Körner. 1791 – 1813.


A SAFE stronghold our God is still,
n A trusty shield and weapon ;
He'll help us clear from all the ill
That hath us now o'ertaken.

The ancient prince of Hell
Hath risen with purpose fell ;
Strong mail of craft and power

He weareth in this hour :
On earth is not his fellow.

With force of arms we nothing can;

Full soon were we down-ridden,
But for us fights the proper man,
Whom God himself hath bidden.

Ask ye, who is this same?
Christ Jesus is his name,
The Lord Zebaoth's Son :

He, and no other one,
Shall conquer in the battle.

And were this world all devils o'er

And watching to devour us, We lay it not to heart so sore,

Not that they can overpower us.

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