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75 Sprague


Give me the wings of faith, to rise
Within the veil and see
The saints above, how great their joys,
How bright their glories be.

Once they were mourning here below,
And bathed their couch with tears;
They wrestled hard, as we do now,
With sins, and doubts, and fears.

I ask them whence their vict'ry came;
They, with united breath,
Ascribe their conquest to the Lamb,
Their triumph to His death.

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