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[44] Beneath that Tree of Life which gives
     To all the earth its healing leaves
In the white robe of angels clad,
     And wandering by that sacred river,
Whose streams of holiness make glad
     The city of our God forever!

Gentlest of spirits! not for thee
     Our tears are shed, our sighs are given;
Why mourn to know thou art a free
     Partaker of the joys of heaven?
Finished thy work, and kept thy faith
     In Christian firmness unto death;
And beautiful as sky and earth,
     When autumn's sun is downward going,
The blessed memory of thy worth
     Around thy place of slumber glowing!

But woe for us! who linger still
     With feebler strength and hearts less lowly,
And minds less steadfast to the will
     Of Him whose every work is holy.
For not like thine, is crucified
     The spirit of our human pride:
And at the bondman's tale of woe,
     And for the outcast and forsaken,
Not warm like thine, but cold and slow,
     Our weaker sympathies awaken.

Darkly upon our struggling way
     The storm of human hate is sweeping;
Hunted and branded, and a prey,
     Our watch amidst the darkness keeping,

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