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Macarte

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Oh had I, my Saviour, the wings of a dove,
How soon would I fly to thy presence above;
How soon would I flee where the weary have rest,
And hide all my sorrow in thy shelt'ring breast.

I flutter, I struggle, I pant to get free;
I feel me a captive while banish'd from thee;
A pilgrim and stranger, the desert I roam, 
And look on to heaven, and long to be home.

Ah, there the wild tempest forever shall cease;
No billow shall ruffle that haven of peace;
Temptation and trouble alike shall depart,
All tears from the eye and all sin from the heart.

Soon, soon may this Eden of promise be mine;
Rise, bright sun of glory, mo more to decline:
Thy light, yet unrisen, the wilderness cheers;
Oh what will it be when the fulness appears?


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