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Willoughby

8, 8, 6

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.

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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