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35b Boylston


The pity of the Lord,
To those that fear His name,
Is such as tender parents feel;
He knows our feeble frame.

He knows we are but dust,
Scattered with ev'ry breath;
His anger like a rising wind,
Can send us swift to death.

Our days are as the grass,
Or like the morning flow'r;
If one sharp blast sweep o'er the field,
It withers in an hour.

But Thy compassions, Lord,
To endless years endure;
And children's children ever find,
Thy words of promise sure.


Listen Download 
http://sevenshapes.sacredharpbremen.org/resources/songs/1---99/035b-boylston/35b%20Boylston%20synth%20text%201%20Treble%20%28f%29.mp3
http://sevenshapes.sacredharpbremen.org/resources/songs/1---99/035b-boylston/35b%20Boylston%20synth%20text%201%20Treble%20%28m%29.mp3
http://sevenshapes.sacredharpbremen.org/resources/songs/1---99/035b-boylston/35b%20Boylston%20synth%20text%202%20Alto.mp3
http://sevenshapes.sacredharpbremen.org/resources/songs/1---99/035b-boylston/35b%20Boylston%20synth%20text%203%20Tenor.mp3
http://sevenshapes.sacredharpbremen.org/resources/songs/1---99/035b-boylston/35b%20Boylston%20synth%20text%204%20Bass.mp3
http://sevenshapes.sacredharpbremen.org/resources/songs/1---99/035b-boylston/35b%20Boylston%20synth%20text.mp3