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EVENING |
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2 Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; Change and decay in all around I see;
0 Thou who changest not, abide with me.
3 I need Thy presence every passing hour;
What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me.
4 I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless: Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death's sting? Where, grave, thy victory?
1 triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
5 Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes,
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies; Heaven's morning t"-psiks, and earth's vain shadows flee; In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.
Rev. Henry Francis Lyte, 1847 |
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