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XIX

8,8,8,8

O God of light, when morn awakes,

And tipped with gold the hills appear,

My voice, attuned, the silence breaks

With heart-borne praise, for Thou art near,

When clouds like curtains drape the sky,

And threatening fills my soul with fear;

As from the rifts the arrows fly

My praise ascends, for Thou art near.

Yea, when the night all unrelieved,

In ebon blackness rules the sphere,

Up, then, my soul! all undeceived

Thy praises tell, for God is near.

O God of Light, in weal or woe,

By clay and night, in hope and fear,

From heart attuned my song shall flow

In praise of Thee, for Thou art near.

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