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TWE

On Recovery from Sickness.

OH Saviour of the faithful dead,

With whom Thy servants dwell, Though cold and green the turf is spread Above their narrow cell.

No more we cling to mortal clay, We doubt and fear no more,

Nor shrink to tread the darksome way Which Thou hast trod before!

' Twas hard from those I loved to go, Who knelt around my bed, Whose tears bedew'd my burning brow, Whose arms upheld my head!