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Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!

All thy works shall praise thy name in earth and sky and sea.

Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!
God in three persons, blessed Trinity!


Room for the proud! Ye sons of clay,
From far his sweeping pomp survey,
Nor, rashly curious, clog the way

His chariot wheels before!

Lo! with what scorn his lofty eye
Glances o'er age and poverty,
And bids intruding conscience fly
Far from his palace door!

Room for the proud! but slow the feet That bear his coffin down the street: And dismal seems his winding-sheet Who purple lately wore!

Ah! where must now his spirit fly
In naked, trembling agony?
Or how shall he for mercy cry,
Who show'd it not before!

Room for the proud! in ghastly state The lords of hell his coming wait, And flinging wide the dreadful gate, That shuts to ope no more,

"Lo here with us the seat," they cry, "For him who mock'd at poverty, And bade intruding conscience fly Far from his palace door!"


THE feeble pulse, the gasping breath,

The clenched teeth, the glazed eye, Are these thy sting, thou dreadful death! O grave, are these thy victory?

The mourners by our parting bed,
The wife, the children weeping nigh,
The dismal pageant of the dead,-
These, these are not thy victory!

But, from the much-loved world to part,
Our lust untamed, our spirit high,
All nature struggling at the heart,
Which, dying, feels it dare not die!

To dream through life a gaudy dream
Of pride and pomp and luxury,
Till waken'd by the nearer gleam
Of burning, boundless agony;

To meet o'er soon our angry king,

Whose love we past unheeded by ; Lo this, O Death, thy deadliest sting! O Grave, and this thy victory!

O Searcher of the secret heart,
Who deign'd for sinful man to die!
Restore us ere the spirit part,

Nor give to hell the victory!

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