Lyra Cœlestis: Hymns on Heaven

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Gould and Lincoln, 1863 - 360 pàgines
 

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Pàgina 379 - Here in the body pent, Absent from Him I roam ; Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home.
Pàgina 278 - He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown ; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.
Pàgina 66 - When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end? Thy joys when shall I see ? O happy harbour of the Saints!
Pàgina 77 - There, like streams that feed the garden, Pleasures without end shall flow ; For the Lord, your faith rewarding, All his bounty shall bestow : Still in undisturbed possession Peace and righteousness shall reign ; Never shall you feel oppression, Hear the voice of war again.
Pàgina 28 - Ye stars are but the shining dust Of my divine abode, The pavement of those heavenly courts, Where I shall reign with God.
Pàgina 317 - Ye saints, who stand nearer than they, And cast your bright crowns at His feet, His grace and His glory display, And all His rich mercy repeat : He snatched you from hell and the grave, He ransomed from death and despair ; For you He was mighty to save, Almighty to bring you safe there.
Pàgina 243 - If the way be drear, If the foe be near, Let not faithless fears o'ertake us, Let not faith and hope forsake us ; For, through many a foe, To our home we go.
Pàgina 123 - O happy souls that pray, Where God appoints to hear ! O happy men, that pay Their constant service there ! They praise thee still ; And happy they That love the way To Zion's hill.
Pàgina 268 - A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun ; A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow : Long had I watched the glory moving on, O'er the still radiance of the lake below ; Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, E'en in its very motion there was rest ; While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west.
Pàgina 65 - Thou hast no shore, fair ocean ! Thou hast no time, bright day ! Dear fountain of refreshment To pilgrims far away ! Upon the Rock of Ages They raise thy holy tower ; Thine is the victor's laurel, And thine the golden dower.

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