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The Holy Catholic Cfiurch.
Thy saints are crown'd with glory great;
They see God face to face ; They triumph still, they still rejoice,
Most happy is their case.
We that are here in banishment
Continually do moan, We sigh, and sob, we weep, and wail*
Perpetually we groan.
Our sweet is mix'd with bitter gall,
Our pleasure is but pain, Our joys scarce last the looking on,
Our sorrows still remain.
But there they live in such delight,
Such pleasure and such play, As that to them a thousand years
Doth seem as yesterday.
Thy gardens and thy gallant walks
Continually are green, There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers
As nowhere else are seen.
Quite through the streets, with silver sound,
The flood of Life doth flow ; Upon whose banks on every side
The wood of Life doth grow.
There trees for evermore bear fruit,
And evermore do spring ; There evermore the angels sit,
And evermore do sing.