277
 Willoughby
8, 8, 6
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1.
How precious, Lord, thy sacred word;
What light and joy these leaves afford,
To souls in deep distress,
Thy precepts guide my doubtful way,
Thy fear forbids my feet to stray,
Thy promise leads to rest.
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2.
Thy threatenings wake our slumbering eyes,
And warn me us where our danger lies;
But 'tis thy gospel, Lord,
That makes the guilty conscience clean,
Converts the soul, and conquers sin,
And gives a free reward.
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