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184

John Brownlie

8,8,8,4

Come, rest awhile; 'tis eventide--

The hour to meditation dear;

And set the cares of life aside,

For God is near.

Oh, let a thankful spirit tell

The wonders of His heavenly grace,

The love that loves us, all too well,

Who spurn His grace.

Amid our daily life He bears

Our cold despite and thankless scorn;

As if He gave not rest at eve,

And joy at morn.

185

Thou gav'st me, Lord, at early morn,

A gift unsullied, for my care;

Another day, I might adorn

With graces rare.

I dare not tell it to my God

But oh, that gift's no longer bright;

He gave it with the charm of morn,

And now 'tis night.

O God, 'tis well at eventide,

The hour for meditation given,

To know we're welcome at Thy side--

Foretaste of heaven.

For oh, one precious day misspent,

Is all too great a load to bear;

But I will lay it at Thy feet,

And leave it there.

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