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The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed
If Thou the spirit give by which I
My unassisted heart is barren clay,
Which of its native self can nothing feed:
Of good and pious works thou art the seed,
Which quickens only where thou sayest it may:
Unless thou shew to us thine own true way
No man can find it: Father! thou must lead.
Do thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind
By which such virtue may in me be bred,
That in thy holy footsteps I may tread:
The fetters of my tongue do thou unbind,
That I may have the power to sing of thee,
And sound thy praises everlastingly!


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