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25
Friday Morning
Tis thou O God! that bidst the East put on
Its robes of glory, when the golden Sun
Cracking Uprising from his orient bed, doth call
All nature be renewed existence – all
To renovated bliss, – but Thy own light
Is never by wrapt in cloud, nor drowned by veiled in night.
We hold our glorious hopes our pity all from Thee
From Thee the charter of our liberty The joys of life, of love, of liberty
And in Thy great unever universal temple never raise
To hymn thy praise, glory infinite Our blended voices in thy glorious praise.
'Twas on this day he died – this solemn day
And the Sun veild his terror – chicken way –
And virtue wept – Night & night resumed her reign
But lo! the mid-day Sun shines forth again –
The mid-day Sun of truth – tho sometime shrouded
In the ever gloominess – & sometimes clouded
In the musty thick vapors – sees those clouds pass o'er
And shines more bright & lovlier than before
Identifier: | JB/110/245/001 "JB/" can not be assigned to a declared number type with value 110.
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friday morning |
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sir john bowring |
[[watermarks::[partial motif] 18<…>]] |
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