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C. M.

The blessed society in heaven.


Raise thee, my soul, fly up, and run

Through every heav'nly street,

And say, there's naught below the sun

That's worthy of thy feet.

[Thus will we mount on sacred wings,

And tread the courts above;

Nor earth, nor all her mightiest things,

Shall tempt our meanest love.]

There on a high majestic throne

Th' Almighty Father reigns,

And sheds his glorious goodness down

On all the blissful plains.

Bright like a sun the Savior sits,

And spreads eternal noon;

No evenings there, nor gloomy nights,

To want the feeble moon.

Amidst those ever-shining skies,

Behold the sacred Dove!

While banished sin and sorrow flies

From all the realms of love.

The glorious tenants of the place

Stand bending round the throne;

And saints and seraphs sing and praise

The infinite Three One.

[But O! what beams of heav'nly grace

Transport them all the while

Ten thousand smiles from Jesus' face,

And love in every smile!]

Jesus! and when shall that dear day,

That joyful hour, appear,

When I shall leave this house of clay,

To dwell amongst them there?

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