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188

John Brownlie

6,5,6,5,6,5,6,5,6,5,6,5

Hark the voice of angels.

Listen to their praise;

Christ the Lord of glory

Is their song always;

Never are they weary,

Ever do they sing,

For they dwell in Zion,

And they love its King.

Hark! they tell the glory

Of the heavenly King;

Glad their hearts to serve Him,

Glad the praise they bring.

Hark! the voice of children,

In the heavenly throng;

And they praise the Saviour,

With a sweeter song;

For He died to save them,

In His matchless love,

And rejoicing brought them

To His home above.

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Hark! they tell the wonders

Of redeeming grace;

Dwelling in the sunshine

Of the Saviour's face.

Hark! the voice of children,

Singing here below--

Pilgrims on a journey,

Up to Zion we go;

Faint our youthful praises,

Sweeter yet we'll sing,

When we reach the palace

Of the heavenly King.

Hark! the voice of children,

Singing here below--

Pilgrims on a journey,

Up to Zion we go.

Hail the smile of morning!

Hills and valleys sing,

Sunlight is adorning

Every pleasant thing;

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Not a note of sadness

Mars the tuneful lay;

Melody of gladness

Greets the coming day.

Lend your gleeful voices,

Children, to the lay;

Morn of life rejoices,

As the morn of day.

Love is like the morning,

Smiling from the hills;

All our life adorning,

Banishing our ills;

In the love that greets us,

Every opening day,

God our Father meets us,

Smiling on our way.

Let our hearts adoring,

God of love adore;

Aye His grace imploring

That we love Him more.

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