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P. M.

Jones Very.

Desires for God’s Presence.

Wilt Thou not visit me?

The plant beside me feels Thy gentle dew;

Each blade of grass I see,

From Thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.

Wilt Thou not visit me?

Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone;

And every hill and tree

Lend but one voice, the voice of Thee alone.

Come! for I need Thy love,

More than the flower the dew, or grass the rain;

Come, like Thy holy dove,

And let me in Thy sight rejoice to live again.

Yes! Thou wilt visit me;

Nor plant nor tree Thine eye delights so well,

As when, from sin set free,

Man’s spirit comes with Thine in peace to dwell.

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