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The Book of Praise.
Though in a foreign land, We are not far from home ; And nearer to our house above, We every moment come.
His Grace will to the end Stronger and brighter shine ; Nor present things, nor things to come, Shall quench the spark divine.
Fasten'd within the vail, Hope be your anchor strong ; His loving Spirit the sweet gale That wafts you smooth along.
Or, should the surges rise, And peace delay to come, Blest is the sorrow, kind the storm, That drives us nearer home.
The people of His choice He will not cast away ; Yet do not always here expect On Tabor's mount to stay.
When we in darkness walk, Nor feel the heavenly flame, Then is the time to trust our God, And rest upon His Name.
Soon shall our doubts and fears Subside at His control; His loving-kindness shall break through The midnight of the soul.