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LORD, what unvalued pleasures crown'd

The days of old;

When Thou wert so familiar found,

Those days were gold;--

When Abram wish'd Thou couldst afford

With him to feast;

When Lot but said, 'Turn in, my LORD,'

Thou wert his guest.

But, ah! this heart of mine doth pant,

And beat for Thee;

Yet Thou art strange, and wilt not grant

Thyself to me.

What, shall Thy people be so dear

To Thee no more?

Or is not heaven to earth as near

As heretofore?

The famish'd raven's hoarser cry

Finds out Thine ear;

My soul is famish'd, and I die

Unless Thou hear.

O Thou great ALPHA! King of kings!

Or bow to me,

Or lend my soul seraphic wings,

To get to Thee.

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