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Draw, HOLY GHOST, Thy seven-fold veil

Between us and the fires of youth;

Breathe, HOLY GHOST, Thy freshening gale,

Our fever'd brow in age to soothe.


And oft as sin and sorrow tire,

The hallow'd hour do Thou renew,

When beckon'd up the awful choir

By pastoral hands, toward Thee we drew;

When trembling at the sacred rail

We hid our eyes and held our breath,

Felt Thee how strong, our hearts how frail,

And long'd to own Thee to the death.

For ever on our souls be traced

That blessing dear, that dove-like hand,

A sheltering rock in Memory's waste,

O'er-shadowing all the weary land.

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