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The Booh of Praise.
There's not a being now accurst, Who did not taste Thy goodness first; And every joy the wicked see Received its origin from Thee.
Each barren crag, each desert rude, Holds Thee within its solitude ; And Thou dost bless the wanderer there, Who makes his solitary prayer.
In busy mart and crowded street, No less than in the still retreat, Thou, Lord, art near, our souls to bless With all a parent's tenderness !
And every moment still doth bring Thy blessings on its loaded wing; Widely they spread through earth and sky, And last to all eternity !
Through all creation let Thy Name Be echoed with a glad acclaim ! That let the grateful Churches sing ; With that let heaven for ever ring !
And we, where'er our lot is cast, While life and thought and feeling last, Through all our years, in every place, Will bless Thee for Thy boundless grace !
Baptist Wriothesley Noel. [ 1841, ]
The child leans on its parent's breast, Leaves there its cares, and is at rest; The bird sits singing by his nest,