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CCCCXII

C. T. Turner

O GOD, impart Thy blessing to my cries,

Tho' I trust deeply, yet I daily err;

The waters of my heart are oft astir:--

An Angel's there! and yet I cannot rise!

I wish that CHRIST were here among us still,

Proffering His bosom to his servant's brow;

But oh! that holy voice comes o'er us now

Like twilight echoes from a distant hill:

321

We long for His pure looks and words sublime;

His lowly-lofty innocence and grace;

The talk sweet-toned, and blessing all the time;

The mountain sermon and the ruthful gaze;

The cheerly credence gather'd from His face;

His voice in village-groups at eve or prime!

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