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C. M.

Paradise on earth.


Glory to God that walks the sky,

And sends his blessings through;

That tells his saints of joys on high,

And gives a taste below.

[Glory to God that stoops his throne

That dust and worms may see

And brings a glimpse of glory down

Around his sacred feet.

When Christ, with all his graces crowned,

Sheds his kind beams abroad,

'Tis a young heav'n on earthly ground,

And glory in the bud.

A blooming paradise of joy

In this wild desert springs;

And every sense I straight employ

On sweet celestial things.

White lilies all around appear,

And each his glory shows:

The Rose of Sharon blossoms here,

The fairest flower that blows.

Cheerful I feast on heav'nly fruit,

And drink the pleasures down;

Pleasures that flow hard by the foot

Of the eternal throne.]

But ah! how soon my joys decay!

How soon my sins arise,

And snatch the heav'nly scene away

From these lamenting eyes!

When shall the time, dear Jesus, when

The shining day appear,

That I shall leave those clouds of sin,

And guilt and darkness here?

Up to the fields above the skies

My hasty feet would go,

There everlasting flowers arise,

And joys unwith'ring grow.

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