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G. Wither

Behold the sun, that seem'd but now

Enthronéd overhead,

Beginning to decline below

The globe whereon we tread;

And he, whom yet we look upon

With comfort and delight,

Will quite depart from hence anon,

And leave us to the night.

Thus Time, unheeded, steals away

The life which Nature gave;

Thus are our bodies every day

Declining to the grave:

Thus from us all our pleasures fly

Whereon we set our heart;

And when the night of death draws nigh,

Thus will they all depart.

LORD! though the sun forsake our sight,

And mortal hopes are vain;

Let still Thine everlasting light

Within our souls remain!

And in the nights of our distress

Vouchsafe those rays divine,

Which from the Sun of Righteousness

For ever brightly shine!

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