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HYMN 110

S. M.

Triumph over death in hope of the resurrection.

482

And must this body die?

This mortal frame decay?

And must these active limbs of mine

Lie mould'ring in the clay?

Corruption, earth, and worms

Shall but refine this flesh,

Till my triumphant spirit comes

To put it on afresh.

God my Redeemer lives,

And often from the skies

Looks down, and watches all my dust,

Till he shall bid it rise.

Arrayed in glorious grace

Shall these vile bodies shine,

And every shape, and every face,

Look heav'nly and divine.

These lively hopes we owe

To Jesus' dying love;

We would adore his grace below,

And sing his power above.

Dear Lord, accept the praise

Of these our humble songs,

Till tunes of nobler sound we raise

With our immortal tongues.

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