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[234] A marvel seems the Universe,
     A miracle our Life and Death;
A mystery which I cannot pierce,
     Around, above, beneath.

In vain I task my aching brain,
     In vain the sage's thought I scan,
I only feel how weak and vain,
     How poor and blind, is man.

And now my spirit sighs for home,
     And longs for light whereby to see,
And, like a weary child, would come,
     O Father, unto Thee!

Though oft, like letters traced on sand,
     My weak resolves have passed away,
In mercy lend Thy helping hand
     Unto my prayer to-day!

1848.

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1848 AD (1)
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