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268.

10s. M.

Jones Very.

The Son.
220

Father! I wait Thy word. The sun doth stand

Beneath the mingling line of night and day,

A listening servant, waiting Thy command,

To roll rejoicing on its silent way.

The tongue of time abides the appointed hour,

Till on our ear its solemn warnings fall;

The heavy cloud withholds the pelting shower,—

Then, every drop speeds onward at Thy call.

The bird reposes on the yielding bough,

With breast unswollen by the tide of song;—

So does my spirit wait Thy presence now,

To pour Thy praise in quickening life along.

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