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A wreathéd garland of deservéd praise,

Of praise deservéd, unto Thee I give,

I give to Thee, Who knowest all my ways,

My crookéd winding ways, wherein I live--

Wherein I die, not live; for life is straight,

Straight as a line, and ever tends to Thee--

To Thee, Who art more far above deceit,

Than deceit seems above simplicity.

Give me simplicity, that I may live;

So live and like, that I may know Thy ways;

Know them and practise them; then shall I give,

For this poor wreath, give Thee a crown of praise.

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