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     Thy ministry and fervent prayer,—
Grateful as Eshcol's clustered vine
     To Israel in a weary land!

And they who drew
     By thousands round thee, in the hour
Of prayerful waiting, hushed and deep,
     That He who bade the islands keep
Silence before Him, might renew
     Their strength with His unslumbering power,
They too shall mourn that thou art gone,
     That nevermore thy aged lip
Shall soothe the weak, the erring warn,
     Of those who first, rejoicing, heard
Through thee the Gospel's glorious word,
     Seals of thy true apostleship.
And, if the brightest diadem,
     Whose gems of glory purely burn
Around the ransomed ones in bliss,
     Be evermore reserved for them
Who here, through toil and sorrow, turn
     Many to righteousness,
May we not think of thee as wearing
     That star-like crown of light, and bearing,
Amidst Heaven's white and blissful band,
     Tha unfading palm-branch in thy hand;
And joining with a seraph's tongue
     In that new song the elders sung,
Ascribing to its blessed Giver
     Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever!

     And though the ways of Zion mourn
When her strong ones are called away,

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