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C. M.

Our frail bodies, and God our Preserver.


Let others boast how strong they be,

Nor death nor danger fear;

But we'll confess, O Lord, to thee,

What feeble things we are.

Fresh as the grass our bodies stand,

And flourish bright and gay;

A blasting wind sweeps o'er the land,

And fades the grass away.

Our life contains a thousand springs,

And dies if one be gone;

Strange, that a harp of thousand strings

Should keep in tune so long!

But 'tis our God supports our frame,

The God that built us first:

Salvation to th' Almighty name

That reared us from the dust.

[He spoke, and straight our hearts and brains

In all their motions rose;

"Let blood," said he, "flow round the veins,"

And round the veins it flows.

While we have breath, or use our tongues,

Our Maker we'll adore;

His Spirit moves our heaving lungs,

Or they would breathe no more.]

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